


Teach Me, Tune Me, Tempt Me

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Miya Atsumu, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mysophobia, Pining, Shower Sex, Top Miya Atsumu, Touch-Starved, Voyeurism, atsumu is confusion, did I mention pining because oh the feelings that will be had, handjobs, just lots of patience and indulging, kiyoomi just wants to learn, on that note maybe the whole thing is also angst, slow burn kinda??, sorry ushiwaka for making you a plot device you deserve better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi needs to conquer many lifelong fears in order to enter his first romantic relationship.Miya Atsumu is there to guide him every step of the way, even if the one Sakusa desires is someone else.***NOW COMPLETE!!***
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 492
Kudos: 1775
Collections: Anonymous





	1. stifle my cells and shed my skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laraleroliro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laraleroliro/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The existence of this comes from [Lara’s very squiggly brainworm](https://twitter.com/blakjackal/status/1289583575151415303) and the fact that I actually read a fic with a fairly similar premise in a different fandom many, MANY years ago. There really is no better pairing than SakuAtsu for this concept, so the word vomit below is what resulted.
> 
> Needless to say, each new chapter will be more intense than its predecessor *Points to the tags*. Enjoy the ride…
> 
> Edit: After the completion of this fic, I've also written [Two's Company, Three's No Crowd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567103), [Within Sight, Within Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362), [All Bets are Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790006), and [Spiced Up Slice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811360)

He’s caught for the first time in Yokohama.

The groupie desperately pressing him against the elevator wall is still thirsty, and not for the drinks they both downed in the past few hours. It’s always like this, after a victory on the road: a local traitor finds their way into Miya Atsumu’s arms in the after-after-after party where he is the only host left. Alcohol from countries he’s never set foot in make their way down his throat, mixed with the sake from the earliest celebration and toppling all his defensive walls with the resulting deluge. He vaguely trusts that the person eventually stumbling into the taxi with him is always the most attractive one of the night - he’s seldom wrong - but not much matters when it’s past 4am and his body is aching for a final release. 4am is also far too late for paparazzi to catch him in any further scandals, so he only endures the silent judgment of hotel receptionists each time he drunkenly wanders through another lobby, the object of his next tryst within grasp.

Tonight, Atsumu lets the young woman ravish him as they literally climb to great heights. He hopes Yuriko is her name, because that’s what his brain is telling his mouth to moan, but she is mumbling his name correctly in between each kiss, so that’s good enough for now.

The elevator dings as its display flashes “23,” prompting him to use the last of his strength to shove them both out the double doors. A vague sense of direction tries to worm its way through the haze - _room 2305? No, 2303, just to the right_ \- and he forces a hand between his jeans and where slender fingers are already grabbing at his ass, fishing out the keycard without opening his eyes.

Maneuvering two tangled bodies horizontally soon proves a challenge, however, so he permits one eyelid to lift. Besides the makeup-plastered face in the foreground, a tall shadow looms at the corner of his sight, about twenty steps down the same hallway.

He turns his head slightly to see his teammate and nemesis clad in his pajamas, a few fresh towels stacked above his forearms. Beneath somewhat ruffled black curls, he is completely stone-faced as he watches the intertwined bodies in front of him finally arrive at the right door.

Atsumu flashes him a peace sign and a satisfied smirk - _sweet dreams, Omi-kun_ \- before falling backwards into privacy and bliss.

It’s three weeks later when this happens again.

The handsome young salaryman approaches him boldly at his fifth Kanazawa bar of the night, quickly rising in the ranks of Atsumu’s suitors as he prattles on about his own short-lived high school volleyball career, emptying the cups of sake being poured between them with ease. It takes only a few knowing glances across the table at 2:38am for the unspoken agreement to form, and by 3:03 they are devouring each other in the hallway outside yet another one of Atsumu’s hotel rooms, the reckless turbulence of their rendezvous echoing against the walls.

Sakusa’s room is across the hall for this trip, and its door furiously swings open at 3:04.

Before he passes into the darkness of his own room this time, however, Atsumu thinks he sees a flash of something within two black pools.

-*-

“Miya. I need you to help me with something.”

They’re back in Osaka, two days since the narrow victory in Kanazawa and one day since the conflicting - and regrettable - taste of acidic sake and salty cum finally disappears from his tongue. The currently maskless Sakusa Kiyoomi’s approach in the locker room is as forward as Atsumu has ever seen it, so he knows that the wing spiker intends to have a serious conversation that he himself is likely unprepared for.

“What is it, Omi-kun?” He stuffs his practice uniform carelessly into a duffle, not yet facing the large shadow hovering behind. “If ya wanna blackmail me for anythin' ya saw, it won’t work. My reputation is already my reputation. Ask the sports tabloids.”

“It’s...not that.” For once, the rich timbre of Sakusa’s voice is contrary to the skittish words it forms. “I want... _need_ to...learn some things.”

Atsumu shuts his locker before turning, brows knit in bewilderment.

“What ‘things?’ Like how to serve the way I do?” His confusion only heightens at the sight of his teammate’s extremely hesitant expression - one that doesn’t resonate with the handsome features that usually radiate composure. “Ya know I’m always happy to help ya out--”

“No, it’s nothing volleyball-related.”

Atsumu blinks hard twice. “Then…?”

Sakusa bites his bottom lip, the rest of his face scrunching into something uncomfortable, though still bearing its own bizarre type of charm.

“I’m going to ask out Watakoshi-kun next time we play the Adlers, a month from now.”

_Ushijima?_ Atsumu’s brain immediately pulls up the Southpaw Ace’s familiar appearance, as well as a relevant headline from less than a week ago. The words are plastered on the _one_ Japanese pro volleyball gossip website on the planet - Atsumu isn’t browsing through it daily, he swears - announcing that the Adler opposite had broken up with his latest beau after three long years. His high school memories vaguely confirm that Sakusa shares a special camaraderie with the formidable player, but even then, he still feels surprised at the current escalation of emotions displayed on the typically-stoic face.

“O...kay? And...?” He has no choice but to push for elaboration.

Sakusa’s entire stance becomes unsettled, his long legs shifting and reshifting his balance as he looks to the side. A full minute passes before the confession finally sounds.

“The truth is, Miya, I’ve never been in a relationship before, much less... _done_ anything.”

Atsumu finds himself gulping, the foggy direction of their conversation starting to dissipate. “...explain ‘anything.’”

His teammate stares him right in the eyes then, a mixture of annoyance and surrender clouding his irises.

“I think what I’m implying is obvious.”

More recent memories gradually surface in Atsumu’s head, this time of declined high-fives, ignored hugs, and dramatic escapes from press conferences. He has always filed those away in the classified “Sakusa Kiyoomi - DO NOT TOUCH” compartment of his brain, but somehow, he had never considered the way such preferences may influence his teammate’s personal life.

“Right, I just didn’t think yer aversion to being touched by the rest of us also applied...there.” He speaks his thoughts aloud. “So ya’ve never... _ever_? Not even a kiss from a dare in middle school? Or holdin’ someone’s hand?”

The look Sakusa takes on is almost pitiful. “No…”

“Wow.” Atsumu breathes, somewhat in awe at the discovery. “Well...um…”

“So please. _Teach me_ , Miya.”

At the devastatingly earnest request, Atsumu halts his own marveling with a violent shake of his head.

“Wh--why me?” His finger impulsively points to himself. “I mean, I know we’ve known each other pretty long, but…”

Sakusa grimaces a little, as if recalling something unsavory. “As I’ve seen with my own eyes, you obviously have _plenty_ of experience.”

_Oh, right_. Atsumu almost cringes while imagining the wild visuals of himself currently frolicking in Sakusa’s mind. “But a lot of people have...experience.”

“ _And you’re my only damn option, Miya_ .” The spiker’s voice adopts a tone of frustration. “I don’t form many connections outside of here, and everyone else on this team is in a committed relationship, not having drunk _fuckfests_ every time we travel…who else am I going to ask? Captain Meian? Hinata? _Bokuto_?”

_Right, Akaashi probably wouldn’t appreciate that last one too much_. Atsumu cringes again. On reflex, his thoughts begin to race with the pros and cons of this unique proposal, the sheer amount of openness and patience it would require of them both to generate anywhere close to a successful result. Indeed, it is a role perhaps only he can take on. After all, even on the court, he guards the essential gate all plays must pass through on their way to victory. So just as Sakusa Kiyoomi seeks to unlock all these new sensations deep within - this admittedly courageous reinvention of himself - it may again be Atsumu who actually holds all the keys.

At his own gradual acceptance of the whole idea, Atsumu knows he has gone just as nuts as the man in front of him, but he also wonders if that’s why they are even well-matched teammates in the first place.

His eyes meet Sakusa’s with hesitation. “So ya won’t care...if I keep fuckin’ others?”

“I’m perfectly aware that this is not a relationship.” Sakusa’s reaction is one of detachment. “Keep doing whatever the hell you want - just try to not let me see it again.”

Ignoring the dreadful irony of those last words, Atsumu exhales a deep breath through his lips, its force blowing the tips of his bangs upward.

“Look, let’s get this straight. I’m no therapist, so I dun’ feel right about this, but I can’t find a reason to not help ya, either.”

At his reluctant yet affirmative statement, the spiker’s expression brightens.

“In the end, you’re just responsible for showing me, not... _curing_ me.” He assures, as if wanting to push through a final obstacle. “Again, we’ll have _no_ commitments toward each other beyond this agreement.”

“Understood.” Atsumu nods. “Um, exactly how _far_ do ya want me to take these lessons?”

For the first time since their teenage years, he sees a gentle flush upon the familiar shade of pale skin.

“As...as far as you’re comfortable taking me.” The volume of Sakusa’s voice lowers to a practical whisper. “I assume you know...everything there is to know about....what goes on between two men.”

Atsumu finds himself frowning, unsure of how exactly to reconcile the apprehension of a teenager with the face of a 22-year-old. He makes a mental note to never devolve into his more objectionable persona, and to treat his teammate - _partner? Friend with benefits?_ \- with as much delicacy as he can manage.

“Maybe I dunno... _everything_. But I’ll go...as slow and as far as ya wanna go. The decision’ll always be yers.”

Sakusa gives a reluctant nod, showing gratitude despite his silence. At the same moment, another thought occurs to Atsumu.

“And Ushijima?” The name, for whatever reason, now brings a sour taste to his mouth - _perhaps_ , he thinks, _because I will have to mention it unnecessarily often from now on_. “Ya...ya don’t wanna save any of yer ‘firsts’ for him?”

“He wouldn’t fucking care about that…” Sakusa’s flush from earlier seems to deepen, though his words remain firm. “He has already had two steady boyfriends since high school. I just…the idea of _saving_ yourself is so... _18th century_ , Miya.”

Rendered speechless for a moment, Atsumu feels both pressured and relieved by the concept at once.

“Yer not wrong, I guess...”

“It’s more important that I feel absolutely ready when the time comes, and not just end up like some wallflower, trembling the whole time.” As he speaks, the spiker’s fists start to clench at his sides. “I need...I really need _your_ level of confidence.”

Atsumu feels the pressure side increase a bit in weight. “To be perfectly honest, Omi-kun...that might not be something ya can learn...” He makes a partial admission, omitting the thought of _And too much of it is liquid courage._ “But...we can try.”

Sakusa nods more resolutely this time, a sense of commitment emanating through every part of his being. Atsumu decides to drink in the sight as the first stage of confidence-building.

“So how...how much do you want for this?” The question sounds abruptly from Sakusa’s lips, as if it had been held back for a long while.

Atsumu is stunned into momentary silence, but recovers just as quickly. “What the _fuck_ , Omi-kun. I’m not gonna charge ya money for this.” He scoffs, knowing that there is no other proper solution. “Just...keep this as our secret. That’s good enough.”

“Okay...tha...thank you.” His teammate sighs in relief. “I appreciate this, Miya.”

“I would say ‘the pleasure is all mine,’ but I honestly hope it’ll at least be kinda nice for ya, too.”

The redness on Sakusa’s face grows even stronger than the two times Ushijima had come up, and Atsumu can’t help but feel somewhat pleased. 

“So, how long have ya liked the guy?” He curses his damn curiosity at the very same time he asks.

“Nine...maybe ten years. I don’t remember when exactly it started.”

“ _Fuuuuck_.” He’s almost envious of the dedication, that wholesomeness of a deep-rooted crush Atsumu has never personally experienced. “He better take good care of ya after all this.”

The last statement seems to drive Sakusa into a calm trance, and when there is no response after a few seconds, Atsumu clears his throat.

“Ahem...how and when should we start?”

The question snaps the raven-haired man back to reality, and he briefly mulls to himself before making a decision.

“If you’re free tonight, come to my room at seven.” The proposal is as straightforward as their Captain’s usual orders during practice. “And shower beforehand, please.”

Atsumu swings his duffle over a shoulder. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

“What are you going to teach me first?”

“First?” He catches himself before his imagination wanders too far and starts replacing the heads of recent sexual partners with Sakusa’s. “Um...I guess...just _touching_ is a good start?”

The spiker releases a deep exhale.

“Okay. I’ll try to be ready.”

-*-

He arrives at Sakusa’s doorstep at seven sharp, hair still somewhat damp from the shower he promised. A few remnant droplets accumulate on his shoulder, temporarily darkening the grey cotton fabric that currently envelops his torso - a more neutral color that he hopes will help reduce any sensory strains.

He had used the few hours since their locker room encounter to read up on mysophobia, digesting its causes and consequences with his previous observations of Sakusa in mind. Whereas he might have felt pity in the past, he has gained a more nuanced understanding of the complexities that reside in his teammate’s psychology, and he only feels more motivation to help him prevail.

At the same time, he wonders exactly how much he can share in any victories, or what that even means.

The door swings open after just a few knocks, revealing Sakusa dressed in a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants. Upon the door frame, his fingers are strangely tapeless, their somewhat bony joints more exposed than ever before. His hair is also tamer than what Atsumu is used to seeing at practices and matches, most of its waves cascading down the left side of his face like a gentle curtain, rather than the wild thickets more suitable for his feral, athletic persona. 

“Hi.” Atsumu waves his left hand once.

“Hi.” Sakusa answers placidly before moving aside to widen the entryway. “Come in.”

As soon as Atsumu removes his shoes, Sakusa approaches with a bottle of hand sanitizer, and he openly accepts the dollops that get squeezed into both his palms. Only when the clear gel disappears into the crevices of his fingers does Atsumu actually see a full view of the room, lit by two halfway-dimmed floor lamps. The doors to other spaces are closed, restricting them to the confines of the living room and kitchen. As expected, every element is austere, though not without the presence of some well-placed details: a glass vase in luminescent green, arrays of colorful book spines snugly placed within white shelves, a checkerboard-patterned rug against wood flooring.

Sakusa points to the center of said rug, where a pair of flat, square cushions rest a short distance from each other. Upon the adjacent coffee table are two glasses of water, as well as a few lit tealights.

“Sit there.”

Atsumu paces over and lowers himself onto one of the cushions, calves folding below thighs in a standard kneel.

“This feels like a meditation or a seance, Omi-kun.” He can’t help but snark.

“Well then, you’d better summon some good spirits to help me get over everything.” Sakusa scoffs before following his actions. 

The apartment turns silent besides their somewhat synchronized breaths, and Atsumu watches intently as his teammate maneuvers himself until their eyes are at identical levels. Far from the harsh lighting of volleyball courts, and within the serene boundaries of a private room, there is an unquestionable allure to the way Sakusa conducts himself. It’s not that he never thought his teammate was attractive - in fact, he is easily one of the most objectively handsome of their graduating class, having long since grown out of his more awkward years - but his aloofness had always made him unapproachable, and thus unattainable. Now, however, his closeness counters any of Atsumu’s previous assumptions, and all he perceives is that meticulous attention to detail, that more genial way he bites back at Atsumu’s words, that--

“What is it, Miya?”

“Um.” He manages to fabricate a quick excuse from the room’s contents. “No gloves?”

“No, as long as your hands are clean, I want...skin-on-skin.” Sakusa lowers his gaze to his own hands, curling the long fingers slowly for a habitual stretch. “It’s more...realistic, no?”

Atsumu listens to the familiar, gentle crack of the spiker’s joints, a sound that is somehow comforting in this context rather than eerie. “Ok. Whateva’ ya want.”

“Ok.” The soft noises stop, and Sakusa proceeds to roll up the sleeves of his t-shirt, revealing even more of his toned biceps. A long, steady exhale follows.

“I’m ready.”

“Please put out a hand.” Atsumu states firmly, before doing just that himself. He’s careful to not word the phrase as _give me_ , as they are nowhere near that stage yet.

Across from him, the request is obeyed, albeit with an unsteady limb.

“Close your eyes.”

Deeply-sunken lids succumb to gravity, foregoing light and shielding the onyx irises beneath.

He cautiously moves into a first attempt then, extending an index finger towards Sakusa’s open palm. The tip scantily makes contact when the spiker hisses, withdrawing his raised hand in an act of total alarm.

Dark eyes snap open, revealing pupils now dilated in their state of panic. Simultaneously, Sakusa’s angular shoulders begin to rise and fall as he draws sharp breaths, the speed of which is just short of hyperventilation. His other hand moves to softly rub the exact spot Atsumu’s finger had barely touched, as if soothing a brand-new burn.

“Hey.” Atsumu swallows, having understood the more accurate extent of his teammate’s condition. “Sorry, ya alright?”

Thick brows furrow, but their bearer still speaks with conviction. “Yah...I just...need to get used to it.”

“Take however long ya need.” Atsumu tries to maintain his gentlest tone of voice. “Doesn’t have to be tonight, y’know.”

Sakusa nods, and slowly but surely, his hands return to their original place in waiting, while eyes once again shut out the rest of the universe.

Time falls away as they continue to test the boundaries of Sakusa’s endurance, each attempt followed by retreat after retreat. The occasional mark of success pushes them slowly forward - from the brush of a knuckle to a fingertip remaining in place for more than ten seconds - but progress moves at the pace of molasses, and Sakusa’s facial expressions only become more and more agonized with every new failure. A part of Atsumu has the urge to simply hold him and soothe the torment somehow, but he knows that is far from a viable option.

When Sakusa nearly sobs at the sensation of his hand being fully grasped, an idea Atsumu had hidden away resurfaces. It’s a tactic he had dreaded to put into action, as he knows the same sourness he tasted earlier in the day will return - and this time, linger indefinitely.

But Atsumu has little choice, so he hovers over Sakusa’s palm once more.

“Imagine that this hand is Ushijima’s.” He narrates with as much sincerity as he can muster. “These are his fingers danglin’ next to yers. They’re hesitant, because he wants to respect yer space. Ya may not be lettin’ him in right now, but he’s patient. He’ll wait as long as he needs to.”

The faked scenario proves immediately effective, and Sakusa’s stuttered breaths begin to return to their usual, steady cycle, even as Atsumu’s hand completely encloses around his.

“He’s holdin’ yer hand now, thawin’ it in case you feel cold. It also feels powerful, the way Ushijima’s spikes are...like a dependable shield is around yer hand, protectin’ it from any touches ya might not want.”

Beneath Atsumu’s opened eyes, the tealights warm the visual of his own hand joined with Sakusa’s, a painful contradiction to the words he has forced himself to utter. Without warning, his heart clenches with unease, causing his fingers to release what another part of him wishes to continue grasping.

To his surprise, a whine escapes Sakusa as he reaches out - _searches -_ for the suddenly missing warmth.

“Keep--keep your eyes closed.” Shell-shocked over the development, Atsumu almost stumbles in his next command.

He takes more than a few seconds to regroup, struggling with exactly how to continue.

“Please.” The plea that arises from Sakusa is nearly a whimper. “Miya.”

Atsumu knows he’s three steps away from descending into some sort of oblivion, and the tremble in Sakusa’s voice only brings him one step closer. But the impending doom entices him with its uncharted darkness, invites him to savor the pain of the inevitable fall - and so he accepts.

He extends his hand again, this time lowering all five of his fingers into Sakusa’s welcoming right palm.

“Sometimes, Ushijima’ll wanna touch ya like this.”

He drags his digits gently across the fate lines, appraising each bump and valley that form the narrow channels, the blend of soft skin and hard calluses that create unpredictable terrain. Soon, the lethargic voyage reaches Sakusa’s wrists, where the heated vibrations of his artery resemble pulsing magma, threatening to overflow.

Atsumu pauses there.

“He might ask ta...move his hand further up yer arm.”

Sakusa nods in consent.

So he continues, softly tracing the spotting of light bruises along Sakusa’s forearm, rounding his elbow, and up the sinews of muscle exposed by the tucked t-shirt sleeve. At no point does he waver too long, not wanting to accidentally ignite any untrained nerves, but even as he moves across fabric and ducks into the sensitive junction between shoulder and neck, Sakusa’s expression does not shift into discomfort. There is only a subtle swallow of the throat as Atsumu tracks the ascending flow of magma against the jugular, a delicate gasp when his nail beds scrape against a defined jawline, a sound of approval during the skim across dense hairs of an eyebrow.

He arrives at the pair of beauty marks that make Sakusa instantly identifiable despite any mask, their pattern like the spots on a dice, having rolled a certain destiny assigned to the human they imprint upon. Out of strange volition, his fingertips begin to draw figure 8’s around the two blemishes, dancing hypnotic steps that have no end.

“Hmm.” Sakusa exhales audibly at the sensation, lips quicking up in amusement.

_Kiyoomi_. Atsumu nearly whispers, but does not.

Instead, he ends the makeshift choreography and moves his hand downward, barely brushing against long lashes before conforming its expanse to the roundness of Sakusa’s cheek.

“Sometimes, Ushijima might hold yer face like this...” He murmurs. “If ya just lean into it, his heart’ll probably start racin’.”

Sakusa angles his head then, fitting the supple flesh perfectly -- too perfectly -- within the curve of the palm. The sight makes Atsumu hitch his breath, and he hates that his recent prediction proves all too accurate.

_Sometimes, he might wanna kiss ya like this._

It’s unsettling, to slow his own savage pace down to these languid demonstrations of affection. There is no clash of alcohol-flavored mouths, no desperate ripping of clothes, no afterthought filled with apathy. No, in this oblivion of a room, the only thing Atsumu finds himself drunk on is the most innocent, most exquisite of gestures. However, he is also wrapped in the folds of a disguise, unable to worship any semblance of beauty as his true self.

He removes his touch, and the suffocating veil.

“Alright.” He brings both hands back together, one still simmering with the residues of its journey. “How was all that for ya, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa’s eyes finally open, their dazed condition fully visible.

“Really...really nice.” He confides almost dreamily. “I think...I’ve really crossed some sort of threshold.”

Atsumu can’t help but feel a sense of endearment, but the reminder of what depictions must actually exist in Sakusa’s mind deflates him. Before such a reaction materializes, he turns to the glass of water upon the coffee table and drinks it in its entirety.

“We’re just gettin' started.” He states after downing the cool liquid, allowing it to cleanse any sour aftertastes that infuse his throat. “Don’t get too ahead of yerself.”

A satisfied smile emerges on Sakusa’s face then, his eyes crinkling into creases whose mere existence had never been proven before.

“Thank you, Miya.” Similar to when he first made the request in the locker room, Sakusa’s gratitude is sincere. “When you told me to imagine Wakatoshi-kun...something just...shifted in the right direction. It feels as if...I am more ready to be with him than I thought.”

“Right, that’s good.” The straightforward confession burns far worse than his palm, and he wishes he had left just one more gulp of water behind. “Um, gettin’ late - I should go.”

Atsumu lifts himself up before Sakusa can respond, almost tripping over his own feet as he heads for his shoes and the door - the consequence of still-asleep calves. But when he eventually slips on a second sneaker, the part of him already entrapped in oblivion decides to drag the rest of him further.

“Let me know when...I mean, _if_ ya want another session.”

He curses himself almost as soon as the words escape, but his makeshift student does not sense the internal strife.

“I will.” Sakusa merely nods. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

With that, Atsumu finally stumbles his way out of the apartment in an ungraceful display, the shutting of the door nearly a slam when his grip pulls with too much momentum. Before his legs fully recover their ability to travel, he leans against Sakusa’s door and sighs, each thought a wonder as to how many more such lessons he can possibly endure.

_As far as you’re comfortable taking me_.

He’s certain he will combust partway through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the longest chapter for at least a while (Set-up needed and all). Leave a comment if you would like, [send Lara some love](https://twitter.com/blakjackal) as she's a big reason this exists and deserves this gift, etc.


	2. trap each breath from whence they came

Practice carries on as usual the next day, and the day after that. They excel at their usual drills, not wavering from the patterns that their coaches and teammates have grown so accustomed to. Atsumu’s sets are spot-on, Sakusa’s kills continue to confound, and both their serves give Shion and Shouyou absolute hell.

The illusion cracks near the end of the second day, when Atsumu tosses a ball a tad too perfectly into a spike that Sakusa completes a tad too perfectly, and the result earns them resounding praise from the sidelines. By the time his mouth calls out “Nice! Omi-kun,” his reflexes have completely overridden those “DO NOT TOUCH” warnings so set in stone only 48 hours ago. The arm that swings towards Sakusa is one he fails to stop, but he is left astonished by the palm that gently claps against his own.

Nothing registers properly until he moves off the court seconds later.

“Did...did Omi-san just _high-five_ you?” Shouyou’s perceptive eyes balloon into a size humanity thought impossible, darting between him and Sakusa, who had gone in another direction to speak with Meian.

“Oh, yah...that’s...odd.” Atsumu feigns ignorance and collects his gear at a much faster pace than usual.

At the end of practice, Sakusa enters the locker room a few minutes after him. Once all their teammates have scattered towards either the exit or the showers, Atsumu steps over to the opposite corner of the enclosed space.

“That high-five was quite an improvement, Omi-kun.” He supports himself against the metal adjacent to Sakusa’s locker. “Though I think Shou-kun might start playin’ detective sooner or later at this rate.”

“I’m trying.” His teammate continues to arrange the contents of the duffle hanging from his shoulder, and Atsumu finds himself drawn to the hands digging and prodding through the already-neat pile of items. Some of Sakusa’s fingers are still wrapped with tape, but he can somehow recall the exact texture of skin hidden beneath. 

“Good, good.” He mutters in approval. “I’m glad it’s workin’.”

Sakusa zips up the bag abruptly before looking him right in the eyes.

“Um.” A sense of certainty occupies his pupils. “I think I’m ready...for more.”

Atsumu feels his mouth go dry, despite having just downed a whole bottle of water minutes ago. “Okay.” He attempts to control the jitters in his voice. “What next?”

“What...whatever you think best.”

“Tonight?”

“Y...yes, if you’re free at 7 again.”

“I’ll be there.” Atsumu confirms in the same manner as a few days ago.

-*-

They’re in the middle of Sakusa’s living room once more, its setup of cushions, water glasses, and tealights nearly identical to the first session. Tonight, however, doesn’t begin with much struggle, and it only takes a few tries for Sakusa’s hand to settle gently into Atsumu’s. It remains there for an indefinite amount of time. 

“A high-five is one thing, but holding hands...is another.” Atsumu drones towards where they are currently in contact. When he looks up for a moment, he notices Sakusa staring at the same spot intently.

“Do ya wanna...close your eyes for this?”

Sakusa shakes his head, his pair of onyx irises still trained on their hands. “No, I kind of want to see it.”

Atsumu proceeds then, twisting his wrist at a lethargic speed and bending it upward, allowing Sakusa’s fingers to swerve around his skin before their palms meet again vertically, like two halves of a praying gesture. Slowly, he curves the joints of his digits one-by-one, intersecting them between webbed valleys until fingerprints rest against knucklebone. When all five have enclosed around Sakusa’s still-open hand, his protégé releases a breath that had been held in for at least a while, as if finally emerging from the deeper end of a pool.

With the delicate care of a new swimmer testing the waters, Sakusa repeats the actions he had just witnessed, each new movement less experimental than the previous. As their connection begins to take the form of two linked fists, Atsumu has a sudden, visceral flashback to joined hands next to a headboard, shifting with the same rhythm as moans that echo throughout the dark hotel room.

_No._ He shakes the memory aside. _This is completely different_.

“Let’s stand up for a bit.” Unfolding his legs, Atsumu smoothly moves into a crouching position. “But don’t let go.”

Nodding, Sakusa echoes him again, long calves swinging outward before elevating his gigantic form. Atsumu is briefly dragged along until his knees finally extend themselves. By the time he straightens his stance, they’re face-to-face, with only a short distance and a pair of connected hands between them. He relishes this proximity briefly, but the direct view of Sakusa’s chin is a reminder of something else.

“Sorry, I know ya and Ushijima are about the same height.” He clears his throat. “But I’m shorter, and my hands are probably...smaller?”

“It’s fine.” Sakusa breathes. “I can just...close my eyes again.”

“Yah, do that.” He watches dark lashes flutter shut with a tinge of dejection.

As Sakusa enters into a focused state, Atsumu begins to tighten and loosen their grip a few times, fleetingly massaging different pressure points below coarse skin, while still watching for any negative reaction. Besides the occasional folding of lips, however, his partner remains at ease. With the assurance, he moves onward in this charade, holding his own feelings in check.

“Sometimes, you’ll be holdin' hands while facin' each other, but most of the time--” Atsumu rearranges their linked fingers until they criss-cross from the opposite direction instead, allowing him to reposition himself at Sakusa’s side. “--you’ll probably be next to him, holdin' it more like this.”

“Should I...initiate? Ask to hold his hand?”

Atsumu is dumbstruck at first, having not expected to give actual relationship advice, especially considering the lack of chivalrous hand-holding in his recent personal history. “It usually just... _happens_. Neither of ya should have to ask.”

“So, almost like how we are right now.”

The observation pleases him, somehow. “Yah, I guess so.”

They stand there in the quiet for a short while, side-by-side and immobile, like a couple on an awkward first date with no destination. Atsumu catches himself glancing over every so often, memorizing a new detail of Sakusa’s serene profile each time. Eventually, he thinks he feels soft presses of a calloused thumb against his skin, imitating what he had done just moments ago. But before his nerves can confirm, the pregnant silence ends.

“I want to sit back down.”

“Oh. Sure.” In haste, he detaches himself and lowers back onto the cushion, burying fingers beneath both knees as if compensating for their sudden lack of warmth. When Sakusa also returns to a seated position, Atsumu notices his previously free hand cradling the one that had been held, caressing it at a passive pace.

“Everythin’ ok?” He asks with genuine concern. “Is this enough for you today?”

Gradually, Sakusa slows his movements, though his eyes continue to bear the focus of an untuned telescope. His mouth parts a few times, but whatever words rest behind them all fail to reach freedom.

Out of reflex, Atsumu reaches out to tenderly grasp a few of the fidgeting fingers across from him, knowing that their owner is now more comfortable. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Omi-kun.”

At the bold approach, Sakusa’s expression turns startled for a second, but as expected, he does not reject the contact. A few more seconds of contemplation later, he finally meets Atsumu’s heartened gaze.

“Miya.” The initial confidence he says the name with wavers with each subsequent word. “Couples who hold hands, I know...that they also…”

The suggestion is vague and unfinished, but Atsumu thinks he understands.

“Ya wanna try more things?”

Sakusa releases a deep sigh. “I don’t really have that much time before the match, Miya.”

Removing a hand from Atsumu’s loose grip, he cautiously taps his left cheekbone.

“Here.”

Again, Atsumu thinks he understands the request, but the theory is quashed as soon as he extends his arm.

“No, not with that.” With the same swiftness as a block on the court, Sakusa quickly impedes the advance with a wrist.

“Oh?” The staunch denial confuses him, but enlightenment comes soon after through the process of elimination. On instinct, he retrieves the hand that had reached out and touches his own bottom lip. “Oh. Are ya... _sure_?”

The nods are quick in succession, but solid in their certainty.

Rather than posing another question, he swallows any remaining doubt and returns his hand to cover the fingers resting in Sakusa’s lap again, the grip this time one of reassurance. With delicacy, Atsumu begins to shift more weight to his knees, allowing the increasing lean of his back to inch both his neck and head forward.

He has never seen Sakusa’s face so up-close before, never been able to distinguish the muted discolorations in his complexion, or the faint angles that threaten to divulge sharp structures beneath a silken surface. His ear collects the loudening sounds of each breath, using them as his own form of meditation against any last-minute unrest. At the corner of his hooded eyes, he gets a hazy view of a pair of half-opened ones, and Atsumu selfishly hopes that they won’t close.

When he stamps an invisible mark against gently protruding flesh, along the very path his fingers had traced just days previous, Sakusa visibly shudders, and Atsumu’s whole heart lurches with a chaste desire he barely understands.

He suppresses the temptation to stay in place, that urge to whisper whatnots directly into an ear. Instead, he reserves his next words for after he has pulled back, removing everything but his hand from those temporarily lowered boundaries. 

“Ya alright?”

The warm hue of the tealights augments the faint red that has painted itself across Sakusa’s face.

“...yes.”

Atsumu smiles fondly, believing that this might be where their evening ends. But when he prepares to stand and speak his farewells, it’s Sakusa who speaks first.

“Wait, Miya. Don’t move.”

The request - practically in the tone of an order - surprises him to the core and presses him back to the flooring. The next few minutes are a daze; He barely registers that Sakusa has balanced himself on both knees and palms, _crawling_ into his comfort zone rather than taking the steady approach Atsumu had chosen. He only thinks he feels tendrils of dark curls dancing against his nose bridge when a long neck cranes. He can’t be certain if the hot air exhaled next to his face is even part of reality.

What becomes more than real, however, is the kiss placed against his cheek - a perfect, virtuous echo of his earlier action that reverberates across his skin.

“Was that...okay?” The question sounds directly into Atsumu’s ear, a daring rebellion of his own self-control.

“Yah...yah, that was good.” He nearly chokes on his words, wrestling between the logic of putting distance between them and the selfish want to stay put. 

When Sakusa finally moves back, there is a hint of delight between the dark wisps of his eyes, reflecting pride that differs from any volleyball victory. As bewitching as the sight is, Atsumu digests it with discretion, for he knows the massive effort Sakusa had just made is not meant for him.

“I’m sure...Ushijima would enjoy something like that.” He forces a grin, along with the truth.

Immediately, the raven-haired man’s expression falls pensive, as if replaying the scenario with different characters in mind. His forehead scrunches in thought, folding the distinctive pair of moles below wrinkling skin. Atsumu watches those subtle changes, tries to contain the deluge of envy that surfaces - and fails.

“Can I? One more time?” He interrupts. “But maybe - lower your head a little bit.”

He doesn’t know why he asks, much less why Sakusa obliges. But he is the one in a crawling stance now, making a second attempt to show his counterpart something brand-new. Sakusa barely reacts when Atsumu’s face lurks far too closely before angling higher, but a contented sigh escapes him when - _one, two_ \- the small, round blemishes above his brow are bestowed with their own caress.

It is nothing more than self-indulgence, a push towards a point of no return, but Atsumu drowns in that tiny display of happiness - that contented sigh - and decides that he no longer cares. If he must be a mere proxy in this quest for Sakusa Kiyoomi’s gratification, he will deceive himself for as long as necessary. 

“Ushijima’ll probably wanna do that at some point, so...yah.” Masterfully, he conjures up the perfect excuse for what just took place. “That’s how it’ll feel.”

“It’s really nice...being kissed there.” A corner of Sakusa’s lips quirk upward. “Almost better than on my face.”

“The forehead can be a...comfortin’ spot?” Atsumu thinks back to a random detail from a random online article long ago. “If that makes any sense.”

“Mm…” Sakusa’s reaction is skeptical at best, but he raises an index finger to his lips. “And what about...here?”

The setter feels his heart stop. “Are...are ya ready for that?”

“Not sure.” The skepticism continues. “But I might want to find out - after you rinse out your mouth.”

Atsumu is in the adjacent restroom in mere seconds, Sakusa’s peppermint-flavored mouthwash flowing through his gums and teeth in a gurgling cleanse. By the time he returns to the living room, the spiker is hugging his cushion instead of kneeling on it, concealing the bottom half of his face like a mask would.

When he sits back down, he remembers to tame his own excitement. “Are ya nervous?”

“A little.” Sakusa mumbles into the stuffing.

“Ya can still back out, y’know.” Atsumu assures, hoping to relieve any pressure his teammate may have unwittingly put on himself. “I didn’t expect things to progress this fast, either. As weird as it sounds, I was even gonna...think hard about how exactly Ushijima might kiss ya before we ever got there.”

The confession draws an amused snort from Sakusa, and he finally lifts his head again to speak.

“Maybe...just kiss me how you would usually kiss someone, Miya.”

Atsumu gulps at the forthright suggestion. “O...okay.”

“Teach me.”

“Right.” The familiar request is a command he can no longer deny. “Well, sittin’ is fine - just put aside the cushion first. And...ya should actually close yer eyes for this.”

Sakusa obeys every detail, shutting himself from the universe yet again and waits patiently. As Atsumu regards the peaceful and expectant expression that now faces him, he imagines the elation that might replace it after this next stage - and also in the long-term. Here and now, in this critical moment, he knows he must store away his own pride in favor of what is truly desired.

“Ya dun’ have to move...just let Ushijima come to ya.” Correlating his movements with his words, Atsumu does his best to narrate a scenario he can barely tolerate. “Think of his face coming closer, and how his breathin’ gets faster…”

Their lips are barely a few centimeters apart when Sakusa suddenly veers his upper body backwards. Rather than the stillness he exhibited before, his breathing becomes slightly erratic, his movements somewhat unsettled.

“Wait.” He lifts up a hand alongside the decline. “Sorry.”

Atsumu reaches out on reflex to support, but the offer is met with adamant shakes of Sakusa’s head. 

“I’m fine. I just think...I need more time.”

A pang of disappointment knocks Atsumu’s mind, but he knows there is no reason to push further, especially considering all that has already taken place tonight.

“It’s fine, Omi-kun.” He smiles, tone thoroughly understanding. “We’re goin’ at yer pace, remember?”

“Yah.” Sakusa nods with appreciation. “Thanks.” 

When he exits the apartment this time, Atsumu tries to balance the unexpected roadblock with all the progress they had made, but the lingering confusion around the former follows him into the depths of a sleepless night.

-*-

  
Despite his insomnia, he is still one of the earliest in the locker room the next day. While Koutarou’s clamorous greeting is part of his daily expectations, what does catch him by surprise is the presence of his darker-haired teammate, who typically arrives much closer to the start of practice.

He nods to them both, but gives Sakusa a more knowing look.

When Koutarou scurries off for some serving practice before everyone else arrives, Atsumu silently counts down from ten seconds. Sakusa arrives at his corner with three remaining on the clock.

“Good morning.”

He turns around, uncertain of where this conversation will lead. “Mornin’, Omi-kun.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

That question had not been within any of his predictions.

“Ya? Of course.” He gulps. “Why…”

Though this moment parallels the time Sakusa had originally requested his help, there is little of the same sheepishness when the spiker raises his right forearm and places it right next to Atsumu’s head. Though a tinge of timidity can still be detected in his eyes, there is also a determination that overpowers it.

“Wait, _wait_.” Knowing what might be in store, Atsumu’s mind scrambles to come up with a properly-devised scenario. “Let me...lift myself up a little. So the height is more accurate for ya.”

Before he can figure out how to make up that difference of five centimeters, Sakusa’s face is already moving downward towards his, the pace not rushed but just right. Despite his surprise, Atsumu feels his entire self being drawn into the momentum. And though it is Sakusa who presses him into metal, its frigidity cooling the back of his neck while a warm presence heats up the front, Atsumu finds himself drifting forward to complete that miniscule distance marking Sakusa’s final bit of hesitation.

It’s an innocent kiss in the end, not going beyond the chafed surfaces of two sets of lips, the tentative touch from an oblivious soul. But at its end, as dark features move away from him once more, he only wishes to close that gap again, to tenderly unravel innocence until it coils with guilty pleasure.

As his thoughts fully recover, Sakusa leaves a final word before returning to their usual routines.

“I just needed a _little_ more time, I suppose.”

Atsumu misfires about a third of his tosses at practice later that morning, and he promises Meian that it’s just an off day.

He also makes promises to himself that he knows he won’t keep.


	3. free all whispers beneath this tongue

One kiss becomes two, then three, then Atsumu stops counting altogether. They’re stolen in-between practice sessions, given within secluded corners, each led by hesitation before dissolving into soft sighs in the end. He becomes a proctor the next few days, monitoring these ongoing tests of Sakusa’s limits, evaluating those boundaries of spontaneity and comfort before pushing them another slight degree.

He doesn’t _taste_ fully yet, not with Sakusa’s mouth still remaining shut throughout these illicit yet virginal affairs. But the requirement for Atsumu to use mouthwash slowly expires, and instead, he collects the tease of mint and chamomile that is constantly left behind on his own lips. Throughout the day, he runs his tongue across the seam even more than usual, drinking in one sample after another until flavors fade, until the next one is granted.

It’s conditioning, not flirtation, but each kiss leaves him wanting five more. The chronic touch of their lips become sweet bits of torture, tearing a microscopic piece of himself and abducting it whenever they separate. Atsumu initiates, sometimes, tries to steal those missing parts back somehow, but he only manages to lose even more.

He doesn’t dare ask himself what exactly they are doing, or when they started forming silent contracts to hide away for a few seconds at a time, or how they can still banter like enemies in front of all their teammates.

He doesn’t dare ask Sakusa why he can’t get enough, because he knows that their reasons diverge in the same way their serves do.

“I’m getting used to this.” 

Sakusa murmurs dreamily one morning, words floating between their barely-parted lips. An alcove of the locker room - one that has become their frequent shelter - shields them from the view of even the most sudden visitor.

Atsumu kisses him again, and thinks of places not so hidden.

“Then let’s go somewhere tonight, after practice ends.”

-*-

It’s nearly 8 p.m. when they drag their fatigued muscles through a vast plaza, its colorful, tiled ground flanked by shops and numerous attractions preparing for their final visitors. The cold of the late winter night is evident through their visible breaths, drifting behind as tufts of steam while they trek onward.

_Kaiyukan Aquarium, carnival games, mirror maze._ Atsumu mentally files away each of the familiar sites they pass by, though he is more focused on the towering, circular structure that looms ahead. The closer they get, however, the more he notices his companion trailing by an increasing amount of steps.

“Come on.” He holds out a gloved hand. Behind the collar of his billowy coat, Sakusa hesitates. But training quickly kicks in, and fabric soon slots against fabric.

Together, they walk - more briskly now - that final distance leading to the Tempozan Ferris Wheel, its rotating spokes of lights giving an animated performance against the pitch-black sky.

“Yer not scared of heights, are ya?” Atsumu taunts as they approach the imposing columns at the ride’s base.

“No.” Sakusa mumbles behind his mask, almost annoyed. “But should I be scared of what you have planned?”

Releasing their grip, he searches his pockets for the required yen before handing it to the cashier at the ticket booth. Eventually, two slips of paper land in his palm, and he turns around, waving them like prizes.

“It’s just roleplay.” He divulges the plan he had kept in mind for the past few days. “I’m tryin’ ta getcha used to an outin’ like this.”

Sakusa’s eyes follow the flapping tickets for a brief moment.

“A...date, then.”

Atsumu gulps at the straightforwardness. Even in his own mind, he had not wanted to frame things with such a definition, but there is no use denying their presence together here, below one of the most popular spots for local couples - a fact that even someone like Sakusa certainly knows.

“Sure, if that’s whatcha wanna call this.” It’s easy to pretend that his intentions are purely platonic. “Hard to imagine Ushijima takin’ ya to this kinda place, but maybe _ya_ can bring _him_.”

Sakusa looks up at the ferris wheel, his doubtful expression alarmingly adorable, features scrunching in a way that Atsumu may never get tired of seeing.

“Would we even _fit_ in those things…?”

Atsumu snorts, sincerely amused, and extends an arm again.

“Come on, Omi-kun.”

He leads them through the fairly empty queue, the wait less than a minute before the ride operator is already ushering them into the next pod. Prior to boarding, Atsumu retrieves a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and tediously wipes down the left seat. It leads to a brief delay of the entire ride, but when he pulls Sakusa in and detects gratitude through the taller man’s body language alone, he thinks no time is wasted.

Little by little, they drift skyward and opposite each other in the metal sphere, their knees almost knocking together due to the somewhat cramped space. He watches Sakusa remove his mask and admire the outside view, a sea of glows from the Osaka skyline washing up the shores lined by his sharp features.

“I’ve...never been on one of these.” Sakusa’s voice is far more mesmerized than his eyes.

“Well, sorry to take another one of yer firsts.” Atsumu leans forward, resting both elbows on his thighs and chin in hands. “But I don’t think ya mind.”

“No. I don’t mind.”

Minutes later, they reach the apex of the roundabout journey, and the most idyllic view of their current home city. But Atsumu has yet to look outward, having seen nothing other than the person across from him. He doesn’t plan to mention that this is also his first time on a ferris wheel with someone other than family, that he has never understood the power of its romanticism until tonight. And even if none of this is what it seems, it’s 15 minutes that feels more real than anything from the past five years.

_Omi-kun_. He aches to say. _What about me?_

“Osaka’s pretty like this.” Comes a simple ovation not meant to be his answer, followed by something much more potent. “Can I kiss you now, Miya?”

Atsumu’s spine straightens, taken aback by the abrupt request.

“Ya...yah.” He stammers. It’s an expected routine for them now, anyway. “Pretty common for couples to do that on ferris whe--”

Sakusa’s lips are already on his, a most human caress foiling superfluous logic that needs no more elaboration. Atsumu returns the gesture softly at first, but it soon takes on a different existence - one reminiscent of their gradual rise into the air, that search for something more splendid, more fervent.

When Sakusa’s mouth fully _opens_ , clamoring for him to mirror the action, Atsumu heaves backward with a gasp.

“O---Omi-kun, hang on.” He can feel his entire face - his entire body beneath his clothes - flushing bright red. “I _can_ take this to the next level, but not...here. If kids and parents get on now, they might see us from the other pods.”

“Where, then?” Still in his same, hunched position, Sakusa grumbles with lips that shimmer like the outside lights.

“Um.” Atsumu’s brain attempts to run through all the nearby options without being distracted. His eyes dart in nonsensical directions, trying to find purchase and solution - until they finally land on a familiar building down below.

“Ok...I know.”

-*-

The mirror maze’s queue is non-existent, with even its ticket seller falling asleep at his post, waving them on by without requiring admission. So they time travel back to childhood-like days, running rogue through the confusing passageways like mice in a lab. Occasionally, Atsumu screams in fright at his own reflection when he turns a corner, and Sakusa has to debate between rolling his eyes and controlling his snickers.

They randomize their path on purpose, seeking the most secluded, inaccessible corner to carry out their indulgence. When they finally discover the ideal spot, a deadend flanked by mirrors on all sides as well as the ceiling, Atsumu quickly cleans the largest pane of glass before pressing Sakusa against it.

“This way, you can watch from _every_ angle. If you wish to.” He smirks as he takes off his gloves.

Sakusa generously drinks in their mirror images with half-lidded eyes, as if seduced by each one in a different manner. It takes him another minute to remove his own gloves, only he also loosens the buttons of his coat, revealing a regal neck rising above his low-collar t-shirt.

Ignoring the beads of sweat already emerging on his forehead, Atsumu admires the alabaster skin aligned far too perfectly with his mouth.

Sakusa clicks his tongue in annoyance. “What now?”

“Right.” He shakes his head to salvage some sanity. “Well, we’ll kiss - then ya can open your mouth as much as ya want. I’ll go at yer pace.”

“So...like what I tried to do earlier?”

“Yes, but…breathe through your nose, and don’t _fight_ with yer tongue - it’s not a battle for dominance or anythin’.” Atsumu insists, inwardly cringing at a number of rather disturbing experiences from his past. “Just _cycle_ through it. Make way for me first, and then imitate what I did right back to me.”

Sakusa nods hesitantly and allows Atsumu to connect their hands together, both pairs now held loosely at their sides.

“I did brush my teeth right before we left...I know ya dun’ care as much ‘nemore, but...just in ca--”

“Do it already, Miya.”

So he does, angling into the familiar, chaste touch that has become their daily routine. When Sakusa parts his lips a few moments later, Atsumu matches it in tempo and gentleness - _open, close, open_ \- guiding both their mouths in a natural rhythm that their bodies somehow already know. When his instinct trumpets that the time has come, he allows himself to move forward, probing against the untrodden territory just ahead.

The instant their tongues brush against each other, Atsumu knows he’s lost, and not in a mirror maze.

“Mmm…” The half-sigh, half-moan starts deep in Sakusa’s throat and quickly spreads throughout Atsumu’s nervous system, ending at his fingertips and toes - as well as that most sensitive part in-between.

He tastes mint and chamomile en masse now, both flavors retrieved effortlessly from every corner of the sacred cavern he is dabbing through. Sakusa’s tongue moves little in its patience, allowing him to explore freely, with only the reverb of ongoing moans as disturbance. The grip of their hands clenches more by the second, with fingers eventually intersecting in a tight formation.

Atsumu is lost, and drunk, and all the other semi-conscious states of being known to man. Before he can wrestle back control, his lips take a drastic detour, gliding from the corner of Sakusa’s mouth down towards his jawline, nipping along the acute angles before diving again. At last, he dips into the pulsing straits that had inspired his earlier hunger, making short-lived indents against every inch of Sakusa’s neck. But even in his daze, he’s still careful to not bite too hard and leave any marks, knowing that it may attract unwanted consequences all-around.

“ _Fuck_...fuck…!” Sakusa yelps at the unexpected sensations, and one of his hands rips away from below to grip hard at Atsumu’s hair. “Shit…”

The pressure of Sakusa’s fingers against his scalp unleashes something more feral within him, pumping desire into his groin and adrenaline into his veins. Atsumu nearly does the cliche move of hoisting Sakusa higher into the air, but before his arms find the right angle to do so, his counterpart, once again, surprises him.

In one fell swoop, Sakusa spins them around, now pressing Atsumu against the glass and reenacting nearly step-by-step all he had just done. Their mouths meet again, and it’s Sakusa’s tongue invading now, taking its fill of him and then some. Atsumu lets himself be ravished, knowing that it’s delicious practice that his pupil needs - and that he can enjoy in the process. When the top of his jacket comes undone, and the erratic pinches along his own neck begin, he bites back as much noise as he can, substituting them with intense breaths that utterly empty his lungs. But when his disoriented eyes catch their reflection above, witness that _desperate_ way Sakusa glues to him - _ruts_ against him - Atsumu almost wants to worship the view for eternity.

Suddenly, a pain spreads along his collarbone, and everything goes awry.

“Waka...toshi…”

The name is gasped in between distinct bites, scorching discomfort rather than pleasure across his chest. Atsumu jerks, ricocheting from the pain of both the wound and the word.

The spasm also knocks Sakusa back to reality.

“Sor...sorry.” He gulps, thin lips now swollen from all its vigor. “I didn’t mean...to bite so hard.”

Atsumu wishes he were apologizing for something else, but he knows that Sakusa had not said Ushijima’s name intentionally. It’s simply a part of his Freudian desire, one that only the subconscious understands.

“Dun' be sorry.” He turns towards the mirror behind him, examining the aftermath. An irregularly-shaped burst of crimson now resides at the juncture of neck and collarbone. He knows it will turn dark purple in a matter of hours, and he will need to wear the appropriate shirts for at least a few days.

“Our uniforms can hide it, so it’s fine.” Watching Sakusa’s nervous reflection in the glass, he forces a smile.

Slight relief washes over his teammate’s face, seemingly thankful that his gratuitous move had not done more damage. But as Sakusa continues to stare at the mark, fascination takes over as his main emotion.

Atsumu slowly rubs the bruise with a fingertip. It is his thousandth one at this point, but somehow, this is imbued with more passion and agony than the rest.

“It does look...kinda erotic, doesn’t it?” He puts on his instructor facade once more.

In the mirror, Sakusa nods.

“I want one...”

In any other situation, the blunt request may have made him laugh, but Atsumu knows the man behind him is completely serious. Even worse, he is more than tempted to oblige, but that earlier memory of a name is still tormenting him, so he decides to set a solid boundary - for now.

“Ya want one...but not from me.” He runs a hand through his hair, ridding it of some sweat.

“I don’t mind.” Sakusa looks at his reflection almost earnestly. “If you don’t.”

_But yer not mine._

“Another time, Omi-kun.” He scoffs, masking hurtful recognition with indifference. “Let’s go home.”

-*-

He’s back in the labyrinth again, in the midst of his many clones, devouring forbidden fruit and innocent moans that should’ve never been within his reach.

But here Atsumu lies, squirming atop his mattress as he imagines coal-black irises lit aflame by his touch alone, and not the thoughts of another. Each tug of his cock accompanies a bite that clamps on his wrist, the only substitute for that pale neck he wishes to permanently stain with a legion of half-moon bruises - one for every mirrored reflection of their debauchery.

When he finds release, a guttural _Kiyoomi_ trailing the streams of come that drench his fingers, Atsumu feels like it’s the beginning of an end.

-*-

They kiss - practice - again come morning, the sheer zeal of it leaving both of them still flustered at the time daily team announcements begin. Atsumu fights to keep his focus, tries to not think of the delectable noises that should never come out of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s throat in public. For a good while, the mission appears doomed, but one particular briefing silences all else.

“Just a reminder, everyone.” Meian reads from his clipboard. “We have our first away game in a while tomorrow, in Nagoya against the Green Rockets. We will be staying overnight.”

A road game. His backdrop for all those nights of gratification, when he signs his name in off-white, temporary ink before it fades from memory and commitment.

His body betrays his heart as it stirs in anticipation for bliss, replacing lips sealed in promise with carnal desire for someone yet unknown.

  
_After all_ , Atsumu reasons painfully. _Those promises are false._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *giggles* spicy
> 
> Comments are appreciated!
> 
> **Edit (February 14th, 2021):** There is now [fanart for the ferris wheel scene](https://twitter.com/YuliceChan/status/1361165443457716227/)! Thank you Alice!


	4. shout glory and praise to the damned

After practice, Atsumu is only half surprised to see Sakusa waiting by his locker, arms folded and posture stern.

“I want a new lesson.” It’s the first time the request sounds closer to a demand. “After the game in Nagoya tomorrow.”

Atsumu towels his hair rather than bring up how this would mean the shortest break they’ve had so far.

“We usually go out afterwards with the team, remember?” He avoids meeting Sakusa’s gaze, opting to open his locker instead. But even the metal barrier can’t soothe the growing tension between them, sparking with hostility, and worlds apart from their makeout session just hours ago.

“Come up with an excuse.” Sakusa states plainly yet ironically, leaving no room for excuses in their current situation. “I will, too.”

-*-

They pull off an easy victory, one that leaves the night still young by the time the team files out of the stadium together. Sakusa goes immediately to Meian once they exit, eyes squeezing together in a pantomime of struggle as he complains of a migraine. Their captain doesn’t think twice before sending his afflicted spiker to bedrest, leaving Atsumu stuck with the task of conjuring up something even more persuasive.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night, guys.” In the end, he relents to the simplest reason: no reason at all.

“Tsum-tsum? _Not_ going out after a win?” Koutarou’s brows nearly reach his hairline. “ _Now_ I’ve seen everything, hahaha!”

As much as the comment is made in jest, Atsumu cringes inwardly at how his reputation has deteriorated these days. While others continue to chuckle, he bids farewell and takes off in Sakusa’s direction.

Their hotel is within walking distance, but Atsumu lingers 20 steps behind the whole way, never attempting to approach or overtake the tall silhouette just ahead. By the time he reaches the lobby, Sakusa has already gone up the elevator.

He follows suit, mind scrambling with all the possible next scenarios once the steel double doors reopen again. Unlike the previous sessions, the boundaries are no longer so defined. Their skin-to-skin contact has moved far beyond innocence, and Sakusa has grown more confident, to the point of aggression. If they go further, Atsumu knows he can no longer be certain of his own self-control - whether he can subdue the recklessness that threatens to escape every time he draws too close.

The elevator reaches the fourth floor before he can harvest any solutions. When he moves down the hall and slips into his overnight abode to drop off the last of his gear, Atsumu realizes that Sakusa’s room for the evening is actually right next to his. The walls are apparently paper thin also, as he can detect noise from the other side just by remaining quiet himself. He prays to the fox god that no one else might hear them later on.

Minutes later, he takes a deep breath when he exits, and another one as he nears Sakusa’s door. It has been propped open by the deadbolt, gaping with wordless invitation.

He enters into a duplicate of his own room, with only the necessary furniture and identical lamps positioned throughout. This new setting for them is unfamiliar, temporary - making it much easier to disconnect intimacy, or so Atsumu hopes.

“Well?” From the edge of the bed where he sits, Sakusa asks curiously, expectantly. “Are you going to give me one this time?”

“Give ya a wha--” Atsumu squints in momentary confusion, but quickly remembers his collarbone, and wishful thinking spoken into a mirror. “Oh. That.”

His teammate’s cheeks turn pinkish as he nods.

“Yah, I can.” He scratches his nape, turning it the same shade of color. “Just....tell me where ya want it.”

“I was hoping you would pick for me.” Sakusa shifts in place, apprehension clouding his features. “Where do they...usually go?”

_All over. I wanna kiss them all over ya._ “I’ll figure it out, and teach ya somethin’ new as we go.” Atsumu shrugs to combat the feral reality of his thoughts. “I showered earlier - I assumed ya did, too.”

Another nod, and Atsumu knows he can’t delay much further.

“Can ya...take off yer shirt?”

“My shirt?” Long fingers immediately tug at a loosened hem.

“Yah.” He affirms. “If yer ok with that, ‘course.”

Sakusa bites his bottom lip before pointing back at him. “Yo...you go first.”

His response is swift, as action seems to trump words at this stage. Burgundy cotton folds under his grasp and rises at its beckoning, following a smooth path upward. It creases at the few hitches - chest, armpit, chin - but slips off otherwise uninterrupted. When Atsumu drapes the shirt upon the closest chairback, he senses movement elsewhere in the room, and by the time he turns around, the spiker has lifted his own top to chest-level.

Atsumu drinks in the rest of the disrobing, including just how gingerly Sakusa folds and lays the fabric aside. They have seen each other’s bare torsos while changing plenty of times before, but there is something about stripping down for one specific person that makes his head throb more than usual. As he watches the way softer light reflects off sinews of lean muscle - a far cry from the unforgiving beams in the locker rooms - Atsumu hates that he must scratch all thoughts about the hotel room being more platonic. When not the backdrop of frenzied foreplay, it _is_ intimate, and enticing, and everything he does not need to realize right now.

“What...now?”

The skittish question echoes Atsumu’s thoughts somewhat, prompting him to continue.

“Lay on the bed, facing up.”

Sakusa slides backward, his giant frame almost overwhelming the average-sized furniture below. As with most hotel beds, it barely contains his size, and when he flattens himself against it, head sinking into the pillows, the disproportionate result is one Atsumu relates to far too well.

After a deep exhale, Atsumu approaches from the left, crawling atop the plush mattress and looming over the resting figure from the side. Sakusa’s eyes lock onto his movements, breaths quickening in rhythm at even the slightest shift.

He scans the bare torso beneath him, moving from the waistband of dark green pajama pants - that peek of grey underwear on the right side - over the ranges of abdominal muscles, pectorals, and collarbones. He had kissed his way as far as the latter, but herein lies new uncharted territories, mapped out for his imminent exploration. Across the expanse of skin, he counts at least 12 more moles scattered with no exact pattern, other than a cluster gathered near the left hip bone.

“Try to relax, Omi-kun.” He mutters. “Close yer eyes if it helps.”

Sakusa doesn’t, for now - but Atsumu turns his instructor mode to maximum anyway.

“I’m gonna take things very, very slow, but if ya get to this point with Ushijima, slow might not feel the most...natural.” Atsumu hovers a hand just above an exposed left chest. “For now, just relax, relax…”

The words successfully coax Sakusa into some kind of trance, and he splays himself in full, as inviting as that open hotel room door.

And so a journey continuing the path from their first lesson ensues, with the slide of a palm down silky muscle, and only the occasional texture of faint hairs tickling throughout. Atsumu touches brazenly, rubbing calloused fingers against every protrusion and dent, appreciating each rock-hard abdominal without prejudice. The beauty marks sprinkled everywhere become an occasional connect-the-dots game, where he traces invisible paths from one to the next.

The first noises sound when said game reaches below the waist, and obsidian eyes watch Atsumu toy with the constellation of black stars that have found permanence near the top of that sensuous, slanted ridge. It stimulates light movements from Sakusa’s entire hip, and the spiker bends his arms to grasp the pillowcase under his head, bracing himself for much more.

“Mmmph…” The soft moans escape discreetly, but Atsumu hears them all. With each one, he can feel himself hardening more and more beneath his sweats, succumbing to those irresistible reactions that have plagued his dreams.

Before he arrives at the point of no reprieve, Atsumu attempts to regain some semblance of control. He slowly drapes over the squirming body, careful to not make extra contact beyond his hand, even elevating his hips enough to not provoke his erection further. When his quartet of limbs form a makeshift cage, Sakusa’s eyes finally flutter close, and he tries to curb that pang of disappointment.

“Tell me if ya want me to stop.” Atsumu puts weight on both elbows before leaning down, close enough for the scent of vanilla shampoo and generic soap to invade his nostrils. “Or, if I’m too close.”

The spiker shakes his head vigorously at both concerns.

Shifting his balance, Atsumu maneuvers his left arm free from its structural role, dragging fingers down Sakusa’s shoulder and spreading a wide palm across the flattened hump right below. In languid, circular motions, he massages the pec muscle a few times before reuniting his digits again. The fingertips meet at that designated center point, where the reddened, protruding nub is already aching for attention. As Atsumu satisfies that demand, alternating between teasing touches and rougher twists, he speaks a sultry truth into Sakusa’s ear.

“Yer stunnin’----is what he might say.”

_Is what I know right now._

Sakusa mews, both grips upon the pillowcase now hard enough to tear holes. His waist begins to travel in an orbit-like loop, a natural resonance to gyrating hips that show no signs of stopping.

Atsumu knows he’s playing with fire, that at any moment Sakusa may utter a name that is not his again. But he is too high on this titillating wreck of his own senses - the view, the sounds, the touches - and now, there only exists the goal of returning the favor, of wrecking Sakusa Kiyoomi’s foundation as well.

“Try ta follow where exactly I kiss ya.”

He barely finishes the sentence before he swoops in to swallow the ongoing mews, lips providing the seal and tongue reaching down, _down_ until it scoops up every sound. The sudden invasion only makes Sakusa moan even louder, and below him, Atsumu can feel the dramatic arching of a spine in tandem with each groan.

He pulls away roughly before he won’t ever be able to again, dropping kisses down the same passage of chin, jawline, and neck that has already become a ritual within 48 hours. Contrary to before, Atsumu’s tongue stays put behind avid lips for a while - up until he huskily speaks his next words. 

“He would tell ya how beautiful ya are...how lucky he is to have all this.”

His tongue reaches down again, this time licking a perfect circle against the same nipple that has yet to recover from his earlier ministrations. He curls around it generously a few times, indulging in every hint of saltiness before devouring it whole. Suckle, bite, lick - he repeats and repeats, with no intention of stopping until the bud fully blooms. 

“Oh fuck---ah!” Sakusa cries, both sweat and tears beginning to leak onto his pillow. “Don’t stop…”

Atsumu doesn’t, not for another few minutes as he gets drunk again on Sakusa’s feral reactions. But his partner’s original request sits unfulfilled, so he eventually replaces mouth with skilled hands - this time teasing both sides - and licks a wet trail down the center of the abdomen.

Before long, he is back at the cluster again, his heated gaze a gamma ray ready to wreak havoc.

“I’ll mark ya as mine, right here…”

The “mine” is both intentional and unintentional, as Sakusa seems too far gone to notice such a detail. All that matters is his teeth baring against the speckled flesh, landing soft bites followed by harder ones, creating contrived black holes that will soon absorb the entire constellation.

He barely registers that Sakusa is yelling out expletives, hopelessly trapped between that purgatory of pain and pleasure. What he does sense is the bulging hardness along green pajamas, and hips threatening to pump into the air with wild abandon, battling against the added pressure from his arms. 

“ _Fuck._ Wait, wait, _please_ \--” Sakusa suddenly begs, just as Atsumu plants one of his final vortexes.

Atsumu unravels his cage immediately, flipping onto his back. It allows just enough room for Sakusa to turn on his side, his breaths erratic and teeth biting on his bottom lip so hard they nearly draw blood. Atsumu shuffles upward cautiously, eventually reaching the headboard and coming face-to-face with his shattered companion. That precise moment is when Sakusa’s eyes snap open again, watery with emotion as they pin Atsumu with a single stare.

“Ya alright?” Atsumu nearly shivers, trying to remain calm despite his intense lust, now skyrocketing from seeing his teammate in such a wanton state. He has no idea how he will ever be able to extinguish this vision when they play together in the future, but he never wishes to forget it, either.

Sakusa nods sluggishly, though both his hands have now dug into the sheets, as if still trying to find purchase.

Out of irrational volition, Atsumu reaches out in a moment of tenderness, pushing an awry strand of Sakusa’s hair behind his ear. He means for it to be encouragement, a cooldown after such a heated exchange, but the motion inspires something else entirely.

Without warning, Sakusa is kissing his wrist, then his elbow, then all the way up his arm.

“Omi-k…!” Taken aback, Atsumu only has time to yelp part of the name before his lips fall prey to its owner.

The kiss is ardent but brief, a sporadic stop before Sakusa descends directly to Atsumu’s hip bone, an eager student applying his learnings in reverse course. Atsumu gasps when the performance has no delicate first act - just nips and bites echoing what created the existing mark on his collarbone. He quickly loses count of how long Sakusa spends on each part of his torso, or how many bruises he will end up with tomorrow. He can only watch as the moving head of black hair comes dangerously close to his erection numerous times, wishing for it to get closer and put him out of his misery. But the sensations shift upward, not down, and Atsumu surrenders himself to whatever route lies ahead. It all feels not like worship but like sin, each offense escalating one by one, until they all culminate in a lethal whisper from Sakusa’s lips.

“I want you…”

The simple phrase sends Atsumu straight to the 9th circle of hell, all fire and brimstone scorching his body from the inside out. He tries to clamp his mouth shut, to form some level of defense against the iniquities being done to him, but he knows he is the one who committed them in the first place. And when Sakusa finally begins to spoil his nipple, Atsumu’s groans take on a merciless will, unleashing again and again as the bruises continue to pile up.

Minutes later, the depraved mouth approaches the site of his first-ever mark, and the blissful agony ends as abruptly as it began.

“Oh.” Sakusa detaches himself hastily when he spots the reminder, plump lips nearly purple after all their transgressions. “I went overboard again, didn’t I?” 

Atsumu stares back drowsily through sweat-drenched hair, once again flabbergasted at the spiker’s blunt transformation. “No. No, it’s fine…”

“Did that feel...good, at least?”

“Yah…” His pulse continues to thump against his eardrum. “Really, _really_ good.”

To Atsumu’s horror, Sakusa leans in again, gifting a chaste kiss out of sheer pride at his own achievement. It is a modest deed by all other measure, but for Atsumu, it is too loving, too painful, too _everything_.

Past all the reverences and sins, it is _this_ moment that seduces him the most, that pits itself as another dangerous, false promise that he cannot concede to. For the first time all evening, Atsumu thinks with his brain and not his body, and decides to distance himself once more.

“Ok. That’s it for tonight.” He says as stoically as possible before hopping off the mattress.

An adept hand grabs his wrist.

“Miya...wait, this…”

When Atsumu looks back, Sakusa gestures towards the protrusion at his crotch, lost eyes dwelling beneath a displeased frown.

“I want...I want _this_ gone...how should I…”

At this point, Atsumu is surprised that he no longer feels surprised at any of Sakusa’s questions. But either way, he decides to not mention the fact that he currently endures the same situation. 

“What do ya...usually do?” 

“I usually just wait for it to go away.” Dark eyes fill with hesitation. “But sometimes…”

“Ok. We’ll work on that.” He bites back the temptation to imagine exactly what “sometimes” means. “But sorry, we have to leave the lesson for next time.”

With that, he snatches his wrist away and moves towards the door, shuffling somewhat uncomfortably as he wills his erection to go down. 

“Miya, wait.” Sakusa calls again right as Atsumu collects his shirt. “Are you...going out, still?”

He pauses his steps then, glancing back for what he promises to himself is the final time. Sakusa has stood up next to the bed now, expression evolving from hesitation to something akin to distress. There is vulnerability, but also a hint of resignation, as if he is ready to accept something inevitable.

“Yah.” Atsumu grins, and thinks of misspoken names and traitorous hearts. “Why wouldn’t I go out?”

_Don’t say it_. The sensible half of his mind screams.

But against his better judgment, he does.

“Gotta find someone to take care of _my_ hard-on, too, y’know.”

Something despondent creeps into the distance between them, like the seeds of a tragedy taking root. He watches Sakusa’s bare shoulders slacken, and catches a hint of the alluring dark spots near his hip - but the latter is soon hidden again as the spiker lowers himself back to a seated position, with only flatly spoken words as his farewell.

“Just...remember that we’re leaving at 6am tomorrow.”

-*-

It takes two hours of wandering through the neon lights of Sakae district and three bars for Atsumu to find the right candidate for his conquest. It takes another hour and a few rounds of liquor for him to forget why he specifically searched for wavy dark hair and a tall frame. The stylish young man opposite him is some sort of artist - or musician, who knows - and the thick, charcoal frame of his glasses conceal the fact that his eyes are brown, rather than black.

_Must be a musician_ , Atsumu thinks a short while later, when long fingers palm at his dick and his tongue curls towards the throat of said stranger. _Probably a lead singer_.

_Because he is fuckin’ LOUD._

They stumble across his hotel corridor as a single, turbulent entity, slamming against wallpaper and doorframes in a contortion of limbs. The young man practically howls each time Atsumu touches a new spot on his body, the decibel unchanging no matter where they make contact.

Beneath the groans, their kisses taste of intoxication, bitter and muggy and drenched with inevitable regret. It engulfs the delicate hints of mint and chamomile Atsumu had just become accustomed to, deeming them unworthy, deeming them insufficient.

Such notions slowly begin their infestation within his mind, and before he knows it, Atsumu is moaning just as loudly, desperate to rediscover the thrill that comes with urgency and risk.

They somehow make it into his suite, each noisy step hammering against its longest partition. In the back of his mind, Atsumu registers that it’s the very same wall shared between his and Sakusa’s rooms, and the fact only drives him wilder.

“Tell me what ya want.” He commands between gasps, speaking more into the barrier behind them than at his partner.

“I want you to fuck me _so_ hard that I won’t be able to walk in the morning…” The response is boisterous, and heavy with hunger. 

“Ya won’t be able ta walk for a week…” He teases back, even louder than before.

The young man shoves him backwards toward the bed, twisting until Atsumu is on top once they hit the mattress. On reflex, his hands scramble to tear clothes off the body undulating against him, fingers digging below hems and forcing buttons roughly through slits. When a nude torso opens up for his feasting, however, his appetite dissipates without a trace.

Even in his daze and the darkness of the room, Atsumu can see the blemishless state of the inviting skin below him. By any definition, it is an ideal specimen, unmarred by any moles or scars across its expanse.

Yet, it is anything but perfection in his eyes.

Atsumu freezes, falling pliant to the hands now peeling fabric off of his shoulders. 

“Are these all _recent_?” A moment later, the voice beneath him drunkenly mocks. “Damn, you move on _fast_ , huh?”

It’s yet another swipe at his conscience, that reminder of what had just transpired hours ago between tastes of light brine and dulcet moans. He thinks of the marks that brand him now, the way Sakusa had molded each and every one in order to lay his claim - some upon his body, some upon his mind, and all upon his heart. 

He sits back, distancing himself from eager hands as his thoughts swim with sober realization, awakened by the memory of a final, sweet kiss that had sealed his desires away from all other covets. 

“S’rry, I changed my mind.” Both his legs swing off the mattress, propelling him to stand and move towards the window. “Can’t do this tonight.”

“What the _fuck_?” His jilted lover grumbles, but doesn’t mull on the rejection for long. “Whatever. Figure out what you want earlier next time, _jerk_.”

Ironically, the man’s exit is rather silent, as if already engaging in a walk of shame despite the lack of action. Atsumu barely realizes that he is alone again until the room heater snaps back to life, replacing the lost additional warmth with its own murmurs.

He collapses back onto the bed, limbs fanning out across the mattress in an attempt to relieve the pounding pressure in his chest. _Guilt_ , it is guilt that ambushes him in the depths of tonight, entraps him with chains of groundless responsibility, and orders his return to the most excruciating charade. 

-*-

It is 6:10am, and Atsumu is the last one to board the team bus.

He bows in apology to the coaches for his infraction, blaming the delay on an incorrectly set alarm rather than yet another sleepless night. Forgiveness comes easy, but finding an available seat proves difficult, as their team managers have apparently purchased extra equipment somewhere in Nagoya, and scattered the bags across typically-empty spots.

“Over here, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou waves at him cheerfully from the rear.

He’s halfway down the aisle when he realizes that the open seat is not next to his orange-haired teammate, but behind him - neighboring Sakusa, who clearly does not share Shouyou’s enthusiasm. Above rigidly folded arms, the white surgical mask fails to conceal the shaded circles under the spiker’s eyes, their greyness far more extreme today than usual. Despite the obvious fatigue, there is a vehemence in his stare, smeared with bitterness that contradicts any passion from the previous evening.

Atsumu slips in, cautious to not accidentally knock their legs together. “Ya dun’ look like ya slept all that well, either.”

Sakusa turns towards the window, reclining his head at a steeper angle.

“And _why_ do you think that is?” The retort is soft in volume, but jagged in its disdain.

The tone sends Atsumu’s semi-functioning brain into a tussle, attempting to seize every possible explanation for this latest strain. The desertion in the middle of their tryst is an obvious source, and it only leads him to remember the second instance from much later. _Thin walls,_ the scenario begins to piece together. _He must’ve heard most of it_.

_I wanted him to._

Unlike last night, Atsumu refuses to let guilt dominate again and wallow him into even more layers of self-doubt. So to his own detriment - again - his provocative side decides to embellish, rather than divulge the truth.

“Sorry if we were...too loud and dirty.” He leans over, countering all logical behavior through the hushed tease. “That’s what could happen when ya...get to that stage.”

Sakusa only twists his body further away, as if erecting a wall between them with his back. As the bus takes off, one hand slides out of the confines of his folded elbow to clutch at the opposite arm, the grip wrinkling his sweatshirt with almost brute force.

At the sight, Atsumu knows his scheme has failed, for the guilt he had sought to relegate elsewhere has not only lingered, but also swelled. And with each ensuing minute of silence between them, it only multiplies in size, berating him through bouts of torment and exhaustion. The latter consumes him for the rest of the journey, and he dreams of many what-could’ve-beens - of waking up this morning with Sakusa in his arms, in place of subpar replicas who can no longer satisfy.

But when Atsumu blinks awake again, reality taunts him by not straying too far. Tucked alongside his ear and neck is a familiar nest of black, and soft breaths flutter by his shoulder - each one a calming breeze, penetrating through both a mask and the fabric of his sweats to caress his skin.

He had fallen asleep in total vexation, only to arise feeling something akin to comfort - the first time he ever recalls such a sensation the morning after a road game.

In front of them, the others have all stood up, preparing to file out of the bus. It takes all of Atsumu’s will to carefully shake Sakusa back to consciousness, pushing him away just enough to feign a normal sleeping position and prevent any awkward conversations. As planned, Sakusa groans and stretches with eyes still squeezed shut, seemingly unsuspecting of any previous closeness between them.

Shouyou winks at them as they stand, the grin lining his jaw full of mischief, as if he can see through their clothes and all the sensual bruises hidden beneath.

Atsumu discovers the real reason for the expression minutes later, when they’ve all disembarked and created a queue for luggage retrieval.

The alert of his phone is almost foreboding, as he hears one go off simultaneously in Sakusa’s pocket.

**SHOU-KUN**

_Sorry, couldn’t help it. Look at you two lmao_

The photo that follows the message in the newly formed group chat - _SHOU-KUN, OMI-KUN, ME_ \- is indisputable evidence of what he had tried to hide. Angled from above - a standing Shouyou’s perspective, no doubt - it’s a capture of two heads in slumber, serene in their togetherness and free of all the friction that result from their typical clashes. Within the frame, they’re bathed in the warm glows of the morning sun, a far cry from the dark confines of a corner, a hotel room, or a mirror maze.

Before Atsumu’s emotions can evolve from admiration to dread, Sakusa has already passed him from the right side, marching up to Shouyou with colossal steps.

“Delete that from your phone.” The command is resolute.

Shouyou complies with a sheepish smile, apology on his lips.

Atsumu doesn’t, and saves the photo before putting away his device. It’s a solace of sorts, compensating for their lack of words when Sakusa marches back, annoyance spilling out of his every movement.

Lack of words, lack of clarity, lack of absolution.

It takes Atsumu another few hours to realize that no demand for deleting the photo is ever spoken towards him.


	5. draw ecstasy from unturned stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late! Had some obligations to fulfill this week, but updates should be back on schedule for the next chapter :)
> 
> I also just wanna say that the number of subscriptions to this fic means y’all THIRSTY AF. But I very much appreciate the thirst b/c SAME :)))

Three days go by, without another request from Sakusa.

Those inner conflicts bleed into their on-court connection, towing tosses into inadequate trajectories, and spikes straight into blocks. Atsumu still sets to all the others with little issue, but barely a single ball rises correctly whenever Sakusa approaches the net.

Each time the spiker takes flight, a jersey rides up along the momentum, and Atsumu gets a glimpse of porcelain flesh broken by his mouth. The white Salonpas peeking out from a waistband is a half-hearted camouflage - though an effective one - and he can only grumble at how his own torso cannot fare the same, its excessive prints exiling him to always changing in the shower stalls.

“Atsumu-kun, Kiyoomi-kun.” Their captain howls after yet another poor execution. “Can I see you both after practice?”

He can sense many pairs of eyes on him, some uncertain, some strangely knowing. From behind, Sakusa’s stoic agreement sounds, and he lets that answer for them both.

-*-

The first sign of trouble comes when Meian leads them into a side room and sits them down, rather than holding a quick conversation on the sidelines.

“Now, I didn’t want to bring this up before, but--” The older man clears his throat. “I _know_ relationships have ups and downs, especially when you spend _this_ much time together.”

Atsumu’s stomach practically does a backflip, contorting the rest of his organs in the process.

The trouble continues. “It’s always a risk dating a teammate…”

“ _We’re not dating_.” Sakusa interrupts, voice as stern as his request to Shouyou about the incriminating busride photo. He immediately realizes his mistake, however, and attempts to compensate for the lack of respect. “Captain.”

_Dates are more than a ferris wheel ride, or confusing evening affairs_.

“Yah, we’re not dating.” He concurs.

Meian’s large eyes quickly expand from the size of coins to golf balls.

“Wait, _what_?” He darts between the two of them, aghast. “Um.”

Atsumu can perceive Sakusa’s utter stillness, that use of silence as persuasion. He follows suit, feigning ignorance with the most confounded expression he can manage.

“Huh.” For perhaps the first time, their leader fails to follow his instincts. “Alright. Our--my mistake, then.”

_Our?_

“Well. Whatever _is_ going on, it would be great if you resolved it outside of practice.” Meian’s smile is now one of embarrassment, but his suggestion remains serious. “As you know, we have some important matches coming up, including the one with Schweiden two weeks from now. We’ll all need you two to be at your absolute best.”

“Yes, captain.” His habitual answer corresponds with Sakusa’s.

They are dismissed, and Atsumu stays a few steps behind as they exit. The countdown just given to them is solely strategic, but for him - _them_ \- it also signifies far too much else.

_Two weeks_.

“Omi-kun…” The reminder prompts him to call out once they return to the corridor. He wants to say something about being more careful, or calming down their pace, but he isn’t certain whether there will be another lesson at all.

“Captain’s right.” Sakusa turns abruptly, as if reading his mind. “I don't leave things unfinished, so let’s just blast through the rest and finish this in the next two weeks...and before anyone else mistakes what we’re doing for something untrue. How much more do I still need to learn?”

There is a renewed coldness to his words - pragmatic, detached - devoid of those precious hints of affection and desire that had appeared over the past few sessions. _Then again_ , Atsumu regards this Sakusa in front of him with some bitterness. _Perhaps I only imagined them all in the first place._

“Five, maybe six more sessions.” He mentally runs through the schedule he had loosely arranged, applying a similar attitude to Sakusa’s for his own tone.

“Ok. That’ll be all, then. Tonight?”

“Yah, yah.” He shrugs - his evenings have remained clear anyhow - but a small detail within this particular lesson plan suddenly floats to the forefront. “Wait--could ya...come to _my_ place this time?”

Sakusa’s nose visibly wrinkles with displeasure. “ _Why_?”

“You’ll see.” Atsumu had expected some level of backlash to the change of setting. But ironically, with this sense of practicality Sakusa has apparently adopted, he thinks he may need less effort to convince. “It just...it’ll help ya learn a bit faster.”

“Fine.” The agreement comes grudgingly, but swiftly, proving Atsumu’s theory correct.

-*-

His preparation is plentiful and detailed: deep clean of his whole apartment; extra towels layered upon his duvet; water, tissues, and lubricant within reach. Other than the lack of rose petals, it’s practically the ideal setup for a romantic evening ending in satisfied slumber, but Atsumu is perfectly aware of where the lines will be drawn tonight.

As always, they greet each other across the threshold at 7 sharp, and as Sakusa passes by him, dressed in loose clothing and smelling fresh from a shower, Atsumu readies himself for any of the inevitable questions.

“It’s not usually this clean, is it?” The first one is, as expected, merciless.

“Would it surprise ya if I said it was?” He elevates his arms, giving the least elaborate tour in history.

Sakusa scans through fixtures and furniture, brutally honest thoughts rolling from his throat. “Then again, you probably have a lot of overnight guests…”

Atsumu bites his tongue, not admitting that Sakusa is the first to come to this apartment for less-than-innocent reasons. He refrains from sharing that not unlike his teammate, he also has boundaries of his own, delineating sacred spots strangers would never gain access to.

Instead, he breaks a boundary, and leads them towards his bedroom.

“What...are we doing?” Sakusa visibly gulps at the sight of the queen-sized bed, as well as the various items strewn throughout.

Atsumu hops onto the towel-covered mattress, the ensuing bounce almost weightless. “What ya asked for last time.” He casually points to his groin. “ _This_.”

Sakusa looks down at his own crotch, then up again. “Oh.”

The reaction nearly makes Atsumu snort in amusement, the impasse of tension between them momentarily forgotten. He reaches back, acquiring the most aggravating part of his preparations from a nightstand drawer. When he flashes the old issue of _Volleyball Monthly_ , clad with a headshot of Ushijima on the cover - and plenty of photos within - Sakusa almost recoils.

“I’m _not_ gonna need that.” There again is a steely reply, this time imbued within both his voice and gaze.

“Okay, no problem.” He puts the magazine aside, suppressing the sense of relief that he knows he shouldn’t dwell upon. “I just figured...in case ya wanted that.”

“It’s too weird to do it to something 2-dimensional, don’t you think?”

“Right.” Atsumu doesn’t necessarily agree, but these are no times to debate methods. “I guess I’ll be the one to...getcha ready then.”

He strips down, both shirt and sweatpants this time, each movement as smooth as the fabrics he dons. When only a pair of black briefs remain attached to him, he motions for Sakusa to assume the same state. For a moment, a rather lecherous gaze combs across the fading bruises all over his torso, but it’s quickly hidden by lowered eyelids and upended clothes. As more disappear, making way for lean muscle, Atsumu notes that the purplish cluster near Sakusa’s hip is no longer patched up. Instead, it lingers just above unlabeled grey boxer-briefs, as neutral as its wearer while it wraps around taut thighs. It’s not much more than what’s already revealed by their volleyball shorts or in the locker room, but those few extra centimeters of skin are like forbidden nectar, and Atsumu drinks in the sight for longer than necessary.

Kiyoomi’s stance is apprehensive at best, and skittish at worst, both arms crossed in front of his bare stomach like a last layer of protection. But when Atsumu pats the open space on the bed, he still walks over obediently, and lays on his back in the same pose as their last session.

Atsumu prays that he won’t be bitten, tilts himself to hover above the stiff figure, and attaches their lips with no time wasted.

It’s his first time kissing Sakusa in three days, and it’s nothing short of rejuvenation. Tastes and caresses rush back, realigning with what his recollections may have lost in absentia. His fingers now rake against both familiar skin and the new textures covering long, sinewy legs, more slender but no less strong than his own. With every discovery, Sakusa reciprocates in kind, each touch a hesitant liberation before allowing himself more and more freedom. Atsumu loses track of exactly how long they stay entangled, but when his partner’s moans become more uninhibited, and a shift of his hip grazes a hardened bulge against Atsumu’s thigh, he slows down his actions before rolling himself to the side.

The room contains the resounding echoes of their breaths, remnants of lessons relearned. Next to him, Sakusa is watching intently as he recovers, a hint of warmth returning to the frigidity that had overtaken their brittle bond. Atsumu both wants and doesn’t want that to cultivate further, but many obligations remain unfulfilled, so he sets his conflict aside before moving to stand back up.

Wordlessly, he hooks thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, loosening its snug hold. With another slide, Atsumu frees his erection, the shaft snapping forward slightly as it’s freed from the stretch of fabric. It’s nothing he hasn’t already allowed plenty of other eyes to behold, but the dilated pair scrutinizing him from his own bed inspires a new vigor, as if he must impress a critic with a flawless performance.

“What?” He questions, and wiggles his hip to cause a minor quake. “Ya have one, too.”

The tantalizing movement paints Sakusa’s face bright red, and he tears his attention upward. “I’ve just...never seen someone else’s so hard before.”

“Well, this is mine - courtesy of ya.” Atsumu continues flatly, as if introducing a museum exhibition.

“It’s ugly.”

“Newsflash: they _all_ are.” He gestures with a pointed finger. “Now, your turn.”

  
With a frustrated sigh, Sakusa slowly adjusts himself into a sitting position. Fingers sink into grey waistband before they begin a gradual tow forward, revealing that final expanse of skin that leads into a bush of dark hairs, and then much, much more.

Sakusa’s cock is bizarrely mesmerizing, smaller than his in girth but longer, almost lanky - at least so far. Maybe it’s the fact that he knows it has never been felt by other hands, but as the shaft stands at half attention, blushing in much warmer shades than the rest of Sakusa’s skin, Atsumu almost wants to shield it, rather than touch it. The protective moment passes quickly in favor of more carnal thoughts, however, and the glands in Atsumu’s mouth begin to work overtime, diligently rehydrating his drying walls.

“Yers looks like... _you_.”

“Are you saying I look like a _dick_?” Sakusa protests, a mix of fluster and anger clouding his expression.

“Well, ya _are_ one, Omi-kun.”

“That makes two of us.” There is no disagreement, only inclusion. “Get on with it, Miya. Show me how it’s done.”

He returns to his previous placement on the bed, laying down at a lower elevation than his seated teammate, with his left arm raised behind his head. His erection rests nonchalantly along his hip bone, its blatant existence noticeably attracting Sakusa’s stare again and again.

“Ya dun’ want me to put on any porn while I do this, I assume.”

“No, please don’t.” Sakusa declines with immediacy, seemingly growing more impatient.

_Well, I guess I can be the pornstar for ya today._ He relents. “I’ll just use my imagination, then.”

A suspicious glance darts toward him, but moves away as quickly as it arrives.

“Well, some lube or lotion always helps.” Uncertain of how to interpret the moment, Atsumu instead reaches for a half-empty tube, squeezing a dollop of its contents into a palm before spreading it generously. “Ya just...slather a little on, and…”

During the pause, and while Sakusa is still focused on his hands, Atsumu sneaks an elongated look at the nude form next to him, memorizes every detail from head to toe, and dives into a new fantasy only screened behind closed eyes.

_Kiyoomi lies below him, beautiful and wanting._

_“Atsumu…I need you...”_

“Ya can start gently. Just run a finger around, and up, and down...” As always, his first touches are featherlight, drifting into tiny paths of temptation. He tries to balance the imagery in his head with both his actions and his words, but it’s a far more difficult multitask than all his duties as a setter.

_His cock trembles at the tip, painting the lubricated rim it rests against with even more precome._

_“Kiyoomi...can I?”_

_“Please._ Please _fuck me...”_

“The head is _very_ sensitive, so be more careful there...” Atsumu rubs two fingers and a thumb along the soft flesh, creating just short of a pinch each time.

_Kiyoomi grimaces as he pushes in so very slightly. The resistance feels like little pinches, testing its invader’s commitment before deciding to loosen._

“Then, when yer more ready, ya should make a fist, and…”

_The most blissful warmth welcomes him, wrapping not only his cock but his entire body in ambrosiac promises._

_“Oh god, Atsumu…!”_

The texture of his palm proves too familiar, almost undoing the illusion, but Atsumu still pumps his hips up into its practiced glides with feral need. The undulations of his wrist increase in momentum, mirroring the bumps and grinds of the imaginary body below him. And like echoes to a summon, the occasional swipes of knuckle against his balls provoke louder and louder groans from his throat.

“Sorry, it’s hard ta talk when…” Somehow, he manages a few cohesive words in between.

“You don’t have to talk.” Sakusa assures alongside deepened breaths. “I’m learning just fine by watching.”

_“You taught me all this, Atsumu…” Kiyoomi sings in rapture, an apprentice reveling with satisfaction. “So make me yours...”_

Atsumu sinks into the praise, and sinks teeth deep into his bottom lip, biting back the chants of _Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi._ that threatens to unwind his secrets. The coil of tension at the base of his spine snaps apart, sending pearline essence splashing across his abs. And Atsumu twists his neck just in time to bury a final howl into his shoulder, rendering its words unintelligible - or so he hopes.

His eyes blink open to Sakusa leaning slightly over him, as if preparing to check his vital signs. The reawakening causes the taller man to scoot backward, somewhat startled. But a tinge of intrigue is glued to his expression, and his cock is visibly thicker than what Atsumu remembers from minutes ago - both proof that he had enjoyed his time as voyeur.

“Go ahead.” Stretching out a weakened arm, Atsumu grabs for some tissues. “Your turn.”

“I...I can’t. Not with you watching...” Sakusa falls tense again, his eyes trained on the dabbing and wiping motions clearing away the drops of semen.

Mess close to eliminated, Atsumu lifts himself up via wobbly elbows. “I literally _just_ did it while ya watched.”

“That’s _different_ , Miya.”

“Close yer eyes, then.” He sighs, resorting to the same old advice. “Ya know what to do.”

Sakusa’s mouth opens, about to start another objection, but nothing is voiced in the end. Instead, he allows the weight of his head to fall against the mattress, as if resigned to a fate he only half wants.

Atsumu places a new piece of tissue over his hand before grabbing for the lube - he can’t imagine Sakusa wanting to touch anything he comes into contact with right now - and passing it. Sakusa looks at the tube hesitantly for a long while, but accepts in the end.

With his usual grimace, he spiker squeezes a miniscule amount onto his palm.

“It might burn if ya don’t use enough - maybe pretend it’s hand sanitizer.”

The bit of gel doubles in size at the advice, though still far below what Atsumu would be comfortable with. However, Sakusa’s struggle to distribute the substance on his skin is as clear as day, so Atsumu holds his tongue and simply watches the self-prescribed tests of texture and smell take place. Eventually, an inexperienced right hand begins to snake its way downward, and he can’t help but grasp the towel beneath him in anticipation.

At first touch - the gentlest brush of an index finger along the tip - Sakusa crumbles, curling halfway into a fetal position.

“Ah...it’s _too_ much.” The call is desperate, ripping away any sense of composure. “I can’t…”

“Do you wanna condom?” Finding himself blushing at the immensely virginal sight, Atsumu can only give the best advice his brain still recalls. “It might make everything less sensitive…”

“No…” A vehement headshake follows. “...I _need_ to learn how to get through this...without one…”

“Then...hold on.”

He pulls his underwear back on before moving to the corner of his room, flipping a tall wooden frame around to reveal the mirrored side, previously facing the wall.

“ _This_ is why I thought my place might be better.” Atsumu carefully slides the pane over, positioning it perpendicular to where Sakusa rests. Upon returning to the bed, he reaches out an arm.

“Sit up, Omi-kun.” He orders softly, before feeling calloused hands accept his invitation. Once Sakusa straightens his spine, Atsumu slides behind him, legs spreading apart to shelter the seated spiker in between. He carefully flattens his torso against a lengthy back, not forcing too much skin-to-skin contact at once. Had this been an earlier lesson, he imagines such actions would’ve been impossible, but the only response tonight are some protracted breaths.

Sensing openness, Atsumu nestles his jaw along the crook of Sakusa’s neck, and pretends to not feel the hint of a pert ass against his crotch. Together, they absorb their joint reflection - a much more intimate - and undressed - variation on the one from nights ago.

“So you watch yourself jerk-off all the time?” Sakusa frowns.

“No, of course not.” He gripes. “It’s better for seeing a full outfit together when I change, that’s all. I just figured it might be helpful for ya tonight, if ya can actually...see the techniques, from all angles.”

Sakusa’s expression in the glass is doubtful, but he doesn’t debate further. At this development, Atsumu begins to curve an arm around, closing in on the member protruding from dark curls, still solid and waiting. His other forearm wraps against Sakusa’s slim waist, acting as a brace for any unexpected convulsions.

“May I?” He hovers an open palm when he gets near.

Tentative eyes stare at his hand, then back up at him in the mirror, and the nod comes after a few restless seconds.

“Watch me carefully, if you can.”

With little warning, Atsumu quickly makes contact with the pulsating flesh, giving it a barely-there stroke with a few fingertips.

Sakusa nearly shatters, his entire upper body wrestling against the arm that cages him, bones begging to bend at impossible angles. 

“Oh--- _ohmygod_ \---”

Atsumu quickly takes hold of the entire length of Sakusa’s cock, squeezing the section between shaft and head for several seconds to fight back the ravaging orgasm. Sakusa chokes out a series of flagrant sounds at the overwhelming sensation, pupils blown wide in shock. But as the seconds pass by, his surprise gradually descends into curiosity.

“Ho...how did you do that?” He gasps out. “How did you...stop it?”

“I’m sure ya saw and felt exactly how I did that, Omi-kun.” Atsumu doesn’t back down from the demanding stare aimed at him from within the glass. “Remember how to control yerself like this next time.”

“Mm.” The spiker gives a reluctant agreement, lips folding into a tight seam.

“Now, let’s continue. Watch, and _feel_.”

Sakusa is heavy but pliant in his grasp, and Atsumu’s hand begins languid journeys from base to tip, learning - memorizing - the texture of every centimeter. The spiker relaxes fully into the repeating motions as he looks on, hypnotized moans chasing each rise and fall. Little by little, Atsumu increases his tempo, and the resulting light slaps of sound strangely resemble the pitter-patter of a light storm, both soothing and stimulating the body against him. 

“Ah--!”

Occasionally, friction disturbs a bumpy vein, and a louder moan unleashes. A few times more, and Sakusa’s rolling his torso wantonly, spine forming enticing waves that return desire back into Atsumu’s groin. Long fingers reach up to fiercely grip his nape, nearly scratching the skin, as if their owner had mistaken it for another pillowcase.

“Give me your hand.” He requests, before his neck endures any wounds.

Sakusa obeys, and Atsumu guides him back to where he had found unbearable. He maneuvers those flexible wrists as he would on the court - only this time, the connection is through direct contact, rather through the parabola of a ball. One by one, he folds trembling fingers around the swollen shaft, now rendered more tolerant by all the previous touches. When a makeshift fist forms, Atsumu adds his own grasp as a second layer - but careful to only usher, and not provoke.

Their eyes meet again in the mirror, a silent acknowledgement to commence the next bullet point.

“Oh...” Sakusa groans as he is steered into the same movements he had played observer to, moist skin sliding against warm flesh in that shepherded rhythm. More and more, he seems to fall under his own spell, even if the words are actually being written by the one behind him. Every line adds another detail to his blissful expression; every noise a new language only the casters understand.

“In the end, you just need to do this more often.” Atsumu coaches. “Masturbation is like volleyball, the more practice…”

Before he even finishes the sentence, the nod of agreement against his neck comes ferociously, rubbing a curly mane messily into the side of his throat.

The sight of Sakusa so raw and emphatic is straight out of his fantasies, making Atsumu dizzy with want once again. Before long, an uninhibited possessiveness takes over, wanting far more than the cock literally possessed by his hand.

He leans his lips into Sakusa’s neck, lacing breaths of hot air over an already heated pulse.

“What are ya imaginin’, Omi-kun?” He teases, voice husky.

A pitched whine is his only response.

_Me. Say ya are thinkin’ about me._ The greed causes his fingers to clench just a tad harder, turning minute noise into more desperate hisses.

“Are ya thinkin’ about him?” _Ushijima?_

“...yes.”

The whimper sneaks out between gasps of pleasure, and Atsumu’s heart lurches, protesting its self-inflicted injury. But this time, he quells the hurt, and uses it as fuel to turn avarice into purpose.

_Then I’ll make ya forget_.

With delicacy, Atsumu burrows a few fingers below Sakusa’s still-moving fist, forming a barrier around his sensitive base. He then twists gently, abiding by the same rhythm as each of the spiker’s own pumps. At the same time, his other hand reaches in from the opposite side, cupping Sakusa’s balls before massaging them in unhurried, circular motion.

The overwhelming amalgam of new sensations detonates a quake from deep within Sakusa’s body, and tears a scream from his throat. 

“Oh _god_ , I’m going to implode…”

“Not yet...” Atsumu whispers, holding him in place with hard kisses along a quivering neck. “It feels damn good, doesn’t it? So make it last, Omi-kun, as long as ya can…”

Every part of Sakusa squirms, disrupting the pace that had been pre-set for him. In the midst of struggle, eyelids snap open again, and black pools pour fervor into Atsumu’s half-lidded gaze - not through any reflection, but directly this time; where irises double as new mirrors, seeking light.

“Is this...how you touched _him_? The guy...in Nagoya?”

The question catches Atsumu off guard, its enigmatic intention adding to his chaos of lust and turmoil. Sakusa’s memory of such an insignificant encounter seems as sharp as Atsumu’s memory of “Wakatoshi” - and perhaps, just as haunting. Somehow, it all resembles a hidden tail of truth slowly unfurling, the figure it belongs to still undercover, hiding alongside many buried emotions. 

_No._ He wants to say. _Only you._

But as with chaste kisses, there is no time for vulnerability in these last two weeks. He can only slash through that swarm of chaos, and pretend to seize territory where he has no right.

“Stop thinkin’ about anyone else, Omi-kun.” He breathes double meaning into the petition, but expects no mutual signage. “I’m here with ya right now.” _And yer here with me._ “I’m the one touchin’ places ya couldn’t even touch yerself.”

“You’re here...with me…” Somehow, Sakusa echoes those unspoken thoughts, like lost reflections being found.

“Yes, Omi-kun...” Atsumu’s hands intensify their ministrations, rocking them both together with every sensual drag, “... _I’m_ the one who’s gonna make ya come tonight.”

Sakusa inhales harshly, and every subsequent gasp runs wildly out of sync. As his shoulders rise and fall, Atsumu bites into the alluring skin below his mouth - marking claims anew, even if temporary.

“So come.” He utters the taboo word held back for himself earlier in the night. “ _Kiyoomi._ ”

The whine that erupts out of Sakusa’s lips is deafening, its timbre capable of shattering weaker panes of glass. But Atsumu’s mirror remains intact, and every detail upon his bed is captured in kind - hips bucking wildly, black tresses drenched in sweat, three eager hands draining every drop of luminescent liquid from its convulsing source. He wants this portrait of ecstasy to live permanently within the wooden frame, to bless his eyes far beyond two weeks. And as Atsumu continues to memorize every second, he realizes that he is playing audience to a beautiful collapse - not of the lover in his arms, but of himself.

In the end, they do both collapse, a tangle of limbs and damp bodies above compromised foundations. Within his arms, Sakusa looks absolutely destroyed, but Atsumu’s own self-destruction is also complete.

“Ya ok?” Atsumu slips a trapped leg away to rearrange himself, attempting to hide the new erection spurred on by the sight of Sakusa’s orgasm. The shifts allow him to reach the tissue box - a perfect excuse - and he hastily cleans his own hands before offering. “Here.”

The spiker grabs more than his share with sluggish movements, arms as powerless as Atsumu has ever seen them.

“If ya need to take a nap right now, yer welcome to.” He offers, without thinking of the implications.

“No...” The other daintily wipes himself down, not missing a single wayward drop. “I have to go back...I need a shower.”

“Can ya even stand up?”

“No...” Sakusa admits.

But he does anyway - somehow - unstable knees and floppy elbows and all. As he awkwardly redresses himself, Atsumu watches him in the mirror, somewhat lamenting that sudden change in scenery, the euphoria that has no permanence.

“Was any of that...helpful?”

A raven mane penetrates through a shirt collar. “Yah...yah.”

With little time in between, Sakusa stumbles out towards the apartment entrance as soon as all his layers envelope his frame again. Atsumu stands, somewhat worried that he might crash into something along the way, but his teammate manages a haphazard route by himself, so he resigns to following closely.

He can tell that his nervous guest is rushing to leave this space - to leave everything that just occurred behind. The bitterness from the afternoon threatens to rise again, but right as Sakusa steps through the door, he turns around.

“Miya.”

Atsumu nearly expects another snide comment, but by now, he knows such presumptions will always ring false. As with all their previous sessions, the dazed Sakusa that emerges afterward is another persona altogether, almost too innocent to have just participated in depravity. This Sakusa looks at him with inklings of remnant longing, and toil, and much more he wishes to not interpret.

He is not just a figment of Atsumu’s imagination, but like the ever changing phases of a reflection, he is also not permanent.

“When you came, earlier…” This Sakusa asks. “What were _you_ thinking about?”

_You. Only you. But you..._

“What I always think about, lately.” Atsumu smiles sadly, leaving them both lost in ambiguities.

Sakusa looks burdened by the disorientation, but he requests no further guidance.

“Good night, Omi-kun.” He initiates the swing of his door. “Let’s do better at practice tomorrow.”

With that, Atsumu divides them, and leans against the partition from his side. Alone and adrift, he lifts fingers to his tongue for sustenance, savoring those hints of flavor that belong to them both.

One more session finished. One step closer to the end.

Two weeks left before he begins to forget Sakusa Kiyoomi’s taste.


	6. extract disdain from eager hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the new tags! *points up*

By a sliver of chance, practice does go well, as does the next match at home the evening after. The boundaries of the court become transformational walls, dividing duty from hedonism. Beneath roaring stands, their bodies are covered by the emblems of other commitments, and each part is asked to contort into shapes that showcase prowess, rather than bliss.

But even under heated lights and not heated gazes, Atsumu steals looks at a back curving generously against open air, and tries to not imagine the languid friction of shoulder blades along his chest. There are bent fingers at the tail end of each spike, but his mind flexes them even further, until they are fisted - held between his grip, topped by droplets of translucent fluid. 

Both spine and fingers snap back in place, like recoils from post-orgasmic zeal, and the cheers that resound return him - always just in time - to the matters at hand. The mirages are a second opponent that he must conquer, but this victory never proves sweet.

They join the post-match players’ celebration this time, filtering into the alleys of Osaka as patrons of the team's usual watering hole. When they duck into the private, cramped space, the bottleneck of athletic frames squeezes Sakusa right behind him, and they are forced to follow that unspoken propriety of sitting by order of entrance. Under the imminent flow of sake and conversation, they lower into kneeling forms, huddled together with barely any distance in between.

Their arms and thighs end up nestled along each other's, creating accidental points of contact through gentle slides of fabric, still separating skin from skin. The points increase as the night carries on - through the pouring of a drink, the passing of a plate of tuna sashimi, the shakes from shared laughter towards a teammate's antics - each one more innocent than the next, but all towing Atsumu into a haze of unwanted fondness.

When, exactly, had they fallen into rhythms that weren't exclusive to the court, that weren't carnal in nature?

Atsumu wonders how easy it would be to just snake an arm around Sakusa's waist, to pull taut and let his 8th serving of alcohol play false culprit to the infraction. He would make it convincing, he thinks, just another daring tease to the public eye, another drunken blunder by Atsumu - but for him, it satisfies that thrill of touching Sakusa in such an open setting, all elements of risk insignificant. 

He's surprised when Sakusa leans in first, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance as he takes a rather vigorous swig from the sake cup. The consequences are immediate, and the spiker's head soon lulls downward in an apparent fit of dizziness, forehead accompanying his stabilized hand in a joint search for support.

"Hey, Omi-kun." Atsumu reaches out exactly as he had imagined, though out of genuine concern and not selfishness. "Be careful there."

Sakusa groans, snuggling further into the sideways embrace until their torsos become practically glued. For a moment, Atsumu loses himself in the display of dependency, that concept of  _ together _ that only gestures like this can define. Before long, his initial plan of deception escalates, bolstered by liquid courage. And when his lips bury into the crown of Sakusa's head, touching far more hair than scalp in its meekness, the atmosphere of the entire room shifts.

“Hehhheh. You two really  _ are _ cuuuute.” Koutarou laughs from a few seats down the opposite side, words slurred but direct. 

Sakusa's head snaps up, as if never dazed in the first place. "What do you mean?”

At the head of the table, Meian grimaces. “Ah, Koutarou-kun, you’ve drank too much--”

“We’re all very happy for you both, y'know.” The silver-haired man admits loudly, seemingly unaware of their captain's hint. “Even if it causes you to mess up a little more at practice...hey,  _ that happens! _ Didn't seem to affect anything tonight, anyway...”

Atsumu feels a chill spread through his back, freezing him in place. “Why...are ya happy for us?”

“Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to tell everyone what you already told me…” Meian's apologetic expression feels more acute than whenever he misses a block.

“Huh? What’s goin' on here?” Koutarou straightens, golden eyes darting back-and-forth in confusion.

“Aren’t you two...dating?” Shion echoes the bewilderment at them, though his words unmask far more. “I saw you---never mind.”

Sakusa detaches himself immediately, almost forcing his way out of Atsumu's loosely locked arms to reinstate composure. “No, we’re  _ not." _

Multiple stings jab at Atsumu's heart, sending pained reminders of how much he had just deceived himself.

“Omi-san, that’s not true, is it?” Shouyou's wide stare lights up with alarm, two beacons seeking truth. “I took that picture of you on the bus because I thought---”

Brows pinching together, Sakusa refills his cup and downs its contents in one swoop. “There’s  _ nothing _ going on between us.”

“Yah.” Atsumu swipes the sake bottle for himself before it lands on the table.  _ Ninth. _ “Whatever any of ya saw, it’s not whatchu think.”

The words singe his throat all the way up, effects identical to the liquid that flows downward right after, now offering resentment rather than courage through its merciless burn. Before heat even scorches the walls of his stomach, Atsumu’s already pouring another, the clear stream from the rim trembling below his shaky wrist.

“Let’s move on, everyone...” Meian voices right as his tenth cup disappears, a guilty party attempting to tame the commotion creeping all around.

The consequences of two vehement drinks in a row quickly take their toll, blending thoughts of blissed out strangers and mirrors and obsidian eyes into a menagerie that Atsumu wants to exile from his head. When the chaotic montage somehow ends on that gasp of  _ Wakatoshi, _ he betrays his last semblance of self-control, already weakened by the toxins invading his systems.

“Plus, I’m not even the one Omi-kun has his eyes on.”

All activity around them cease at the statement, a heartless exposé far worse than any wounds inflicted only between the two of them. Though Atsumu does not take his eleventh drink, the hum of antipathy next to him is enough to render him unsteady, despite still being seated.

Sakusa scoffs after an elongated silence.

“Yah. I would never want to be another one-night-stand in your conquests, Miya.”

The reprisal is spoken with absolute lucidity, a precisely-fired bullet contrary to the spiker's inebriated state. As Atsumu attempts to compress his insides, lest they splinter apart from the ruthless force, a swinging hand knocks unapologetically into his arm. The stumbles from Sakusa that follow are reminiscent of how he had left Atsumu's apartment two nights ago, his steps contesting bumps within an aimless path. But as he exits, he does not turn around to ask for clarity - he seems to already possess it.

"Wait,  _ Sakusa!" _ Barnes gets up, ever the father figure. "I'll go make sure he gets home alright."

“Ahhhh...I fucked up, didn’t I...” Koutarou rubs both palms over his exasperated face. "I  _ always _ fuck up..."

Atsumu drinks his eleventh, and suppresses the desire to affirm Sakusa's accusations; to seek out another stranger and drown all sorrows in the same bed only the two of them had shared.

But it’s still  _ Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi _ that falls from his lips that night, alone, sweat soaking through layers of sheets as memories overpower fantasy.

-*-

The team tip-toes around both of them the next day, their actions hesitant and words deliberate. Atsumu sends only a few half-hearted tosses in Sakusa’s direction, and they’re hit half-heartedly in return.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. Coach Foster, though absent last night, makes a specific request for them to stay after, this time not for any kind of sideroom conversation. For an extra 45 minutes, they engage in their standard type of relationship therapy: nonstop run throughs of a flawed on-court connection, still fixable through practice.

Discipline kicks in at last, and Atsumu converts the grudges that bubble whenever he looks in Sakusa’s direction into power for his wrists.  _ Woosh, woosh, _ his sets have never flown so high, or at such high velocities. But even after the 30th or 40th time, he still feels stifled.

Around and above him, Sakusa acts as a parallel, each of his flights seemingly tethered by a tension that lifts him further into the air. It only releases when his wrists snap and snap again, resulting in projectiles that become more forceful with every new round.

At this point, Atsumu knows that this is their way of communicating pent-up frustration, and he has a feeling it won’t end easily.

“Alright. Much better.” Coach Foster nods with approval once the timer hits 45. “You’re dismissed.”

They bow in respect before gathering belongings, only to have their actions stopped once more.

“Oh and Sakusa-kun, your receives earlier today looked great as well.” The older man adds a footnote. “You’ll be more than ready for that Southpaw when we meet the Adlers.”

Atsumu watches as Sakusa’s eyes dart from the coach back towards him, a mix of emotions quickly revealing itself. Before his mind even tries to decipher the many components, his body makes the decision to not even bother. He impulsively tosses a towel over his shoulder, and takes off for the locker room.

-*-

He drenches himself in hot rain, a much-needed baptism from the wrongs of the past 24 hours. This combination of pride, greed, envy, and wrath feels much more sinful than acts of lust, which had been so subtle in their nudging of him towards oblivion. But this new force - it propels him faster than Sakusa’s most fatal spike, with no concern for how deep he may still fall.

As Atsumu washes the last suds from his skin, there is the sound of more spraying water, not coming from the stall adjacent to his, but across. Considering their required overtime, the activity can only belong to one name, whose notorious showers have always been the longest out of the whole team.  _ Good. _ He thinks as he begins to twist the knobs on the wall.  _ I can pack up and leave quietly. _

His perfect plan, however, fails before it even commences.

“Miya…”

Atsumu freezes, an incomplete, final twist causing droplets to continue falling on his forehead.

_ "Miya." _ Against the ongoing spatter, the second call is more insistent.

He shuts his end of the water pipes tightly, though the pipelines in his throat still permit a long gulp. “What is it?”

“Can you...come in here?”

He nearly leans a forearm on the tiled wall for support.  _ "What?" _

“Just come...in here…please.”

His bare feet are heavy as they drag along the wet floor, obedient yet hesitant. As he exits his own stall, Atsumu considers wrapping himself in a towel. But the opposite showerhead still sprays away from up above, and he deduces that the sole privacy afforded will be from the next curtain.

His hands push the plastic aside slowly, folding the material along its existing creases before he steps in. Wafts of steam hit him first, heating his skin upon their featherlike impact - and the sight of Sakusa’s nude, standing form immediately heats him from within. He is propped against one side, an ethereal, alabaster statue under the brightness of the room, streams of liquid running down every crevasse that delineates muscle. He’s an artwork beautiful enough to fool untrained eyes, had it not been for slackened arms and the two masses of dark hair that decorate his body. The bruises from two sessions ago have faded, but the large bite mark on his shoulder remains an inviting blemish, summoning Atsumu to claim it again.

His cock twitches in its desire to stand at attention, wanting to give appraisal separate from that of his eyes. At the same time, Atsumu ponders the irony of the team having already caught their past, far more innocent escapades - and yet, here they are again, in one of the places they should avoid by all means.

“This is not exactly where I planned our next lesson.” He asserts while shutting the curtain behind him, a necessary though likely futile barrier in the end.

Sakusa finally looks in his direction, blinking away droplets that begin to land upon his lashes.

“Does it have to be a lesson?”

Atsumu inhales sharply, rushing warm condensation through both nostrils until he feels smothered.

“Omi-kun.” He reminds, more aloof than he intends. “That’s all we’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Can you improvise, then?” Sakusa barely hesitates in his speech, though he wraps both arms around his own waist. “I just...I need y---I need one, right now.”

“I think maybe we need to talk about last nigh---”

_ "I need you."  _ The plea leaves no room for further excuse.  _ "Now." _

Atsumu recognizes the tone, commanding and buried in disdain. It’s identical to how Sakusa had uttered all his denials - as well as those final words of contempt - towards their teammates the night before.

In this steam-clouded perception, this is yet another combination of pride, greed, envy, and wrath. So he adds lust.

It takes only two strides for Atsumu to press Sakusa against the tiles, the approach so forceful it almost lifts the spiker fully off the ground. His neck stretches upward to engage in another dance of lips and tongues, this time choreographed with the underlying scorn still held within their hearts. Water rains down on them, its attempt to cleanse all corruption leaving their muscles slick. But the sliding of wet skin against wet skin is almost obscene, and renders this joint baptism unsuccessful. It’s not long before Atsumu begins to kiss downward, suckling at the column of a taut neck, drinking in each new bead of water as they appear on the surface.

" _Yes...yes. Ah..._ " Sakusa gasps out, succumbing to that fifth sin that he is also guilty of.

Atsumu roams both hands across wet expanses, up a familiar abdomen and chest before descending towards the rear. He soon plants palms where he had coveted before, kneading firm flesh that had always been hidden beneath black uniform shorts. Sakusa’s hip gyrate forward and back, half from the momentum of the massages and half from his own inner rhythm, brushing their cocks together with each measured orbit.

Atsumu hisses at each delicious contact, but maintains enough control to pull back his mouth and speak.

“Today, we’ll…”

“No…” Sakusa shakes his head, sending liquid flying out his hair.

“No?”

“Don’t talk to me like a teacher…” A dark gaze pins Atsumu to the demands attached to it. “Talk to me...like how I heard you in Nagoya…even if you have to pretend...or lie...”

_ Oh… _ He mulls over the specific nature of it all, that  _ need _ ironically stemming from malice. Just as how he had used it to empower tosses during the extra drills, he now allows its darkness to form ink, and composes a script in his head.

Only, it’s no script in the end. Many charades have already been performed, but this will not be one of them -  _ this, _ Atsumu knows, will only be saturated in brutal honesty.

He grabs the lone bar of soap on the corner shelf, slathering his palms with its lubrication before offering it.

“Touch yerself, Kiyoomi.” 

Sakusa whimpers at the sound of his name, and obliges, imitating the same actions until suds cover both his hands. Then, under Atsumu’s watchful gaze, he drifts fingers over and around his hardness, without any hint of his past reluctances.

“You’ve been practicing.” He marvels.

No response comes, but the spiker’s flushed face speaks for itself. Atsumu wants to ask  _ how many times, _ or  _ what did you imagine, _ but he knows that would only be hypocritical.

“Yer so beautiful, Kiyoomi…” He mutters the script instead, barely loud enough over the splashes of water. “I can’t take my eyes off of ya when yer like this…”

Atsumu reaches out then, capturing his own erection with one hand and cupping Sakusa’s balls with the other. The touch sends a visible shudder through the taller man’s body, but he doesn’t slow down his rhythm of pleasure.

“I keep thinkin’ about how much ya came in my hand.” He forms two gentle grips and moves them in sync, before licking his lips. “How good it tasted…”

“You...you tasted it?”

This time, it’s Atsumu who pins back with his eyes, and demands.

“Yes, and I wanna taste it again.”

A moan escapes Sakusa’s throat, the fist formed around his cock accelerating in its sudden eagerness to serve. Atsumu can barely feel his own touches, his senses now overwhelmed by what he’s witnessing instead.

“Touch  _ me _ now.” He requests abruptly, no longer bothering to quell his own needs. “Come on.”

Releasing himself, he moves towards Sakusa’s free hand, and is met halfway. Long fingers willingly follow his guidance, wrapping around a thickness only seen and not felt before now. Despite all their recent conflicts, and rough words spoken through anger, Sakusa starts caressing his erection as if it were the greatest gift, ranking even above the most perfect toss. Soon, the speed of both his wrists match up, drawing content noises that mingle with the ongoing spatters.

_ "Ah...yes, _ Kiyoomi…” Bracing himself with an elbow next to Sakusa’s ear, Atsumu watches the hands that he usually performs for now blessing him with a performance, and wonders if he will ever be able to set to them properly again. Even through the thin layer of soapy smoothness, the calloused palm makes each stroke feel like something forbidden, a trove of secret sensations finally unlocked.

Atsumu kisses him again - the only form of gratitude and encouragement he can conjure up in this moment. When he withdraws, Sakusa is staring at him, expression feverish as he continues his dual tasks.

“Ya want more, dontcha?” Atsumu whispers.

“Yes...yes…”

He battles through the difficulty of losing Sakusa’s touch, and frees him from all commitments. Gradually, Atsumu maneuvers the other’s arms around his own neck, bringing their bodies as close to contact as possible. With a deft hand, he gathers their cocks, both beautifully erect through those minutes of indulgent preparation. His setter fingers encircle them, two shafts juxtapositioned like their two long torsos, sparking pleasure from endless nerve endings. And when he begins those thrilling, stretched-out strokes, Sakusa’s brows arch downward in gratified distress, distorting even the moles on his forehead.

“How do I feel against ya?” Atsumu breathes through a grin, relishing in the answer to that question himself.

Sakusa’s lashes flutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “ _ So, _ so good... _ ah..." _

“Ya feel like heaven, Kiyoomi…” The script of his reality continues as Atsumu tugs, and twists. “I’ve thought about us fuckin’ like this in the shower for ages…”

It’s the first time their bodies move to a completely joint rhythm, no longer plagued by inexperience or distractions. Muscles glide together in flows not unlike the water that grazes them, with occasional, gentle collisions that contrast the more brutal ones they encounter day-to-day. Sakusa’s forehead leans against his, eyes half open in a dreamy daze, lips ready to receive any kiss he wants to give. They had nearly shut themselves down from each other less than a day ago, but just like countless instances before, this -  _ whatever _ this is between them - forces their bodies and minds wide open again.

_ Is this sin? Is this salvation? Is this lo-- _

Atsumu halts his thoughts, but not his movements.

“Ah...oh fuck… _fuck_..." Sakusa whimpers when a peculiar angle rubs their tips together.

“Whaddya want, Kiyoomi?” He lifts a thumb, smearing their leaked precum all around that sensitive spot. “Tell me.”

“I want you to...make me come again…”

“Say it louder.”

“Make me come!  _ Please!" _

The beg sets off two euphoric detonations - one near Atsumu’s brain stem, and the other at the base of his cock. Cum sputters out of his slit as he engulfs that pleading mouth, casting the sounds of his ecstasy into its welcoming cavern. Echoes soon rise from the cavern’s own depths, right as Atsumu feels even more fluid splash onto his fist. Down below, Sakusa’s hips are slamming uncontrollably into his, as if challenging to him a final duel as it makes the most of this high.

They descend, not gracefully, but together with synchronized gasps. As Sakusa watches, Atsumu lifts the hand that brought them to this stage, lapping at the concoction of both their making before he allows the rest to wash away.

Opposite him, the tip of a pink tongue peeks out, but there is no request to taste.

His legs have the consistency of jelly, but Atsumu still manages to turn off the showerhead, ending their improvised ritual. He plummets next to an already-seated figure right after, breaths long and heavy as his lungs recover. But here and now, the more substantial restoration is between them - their tension finally eased, sins atoned.

“Did ya...blow off all yer steam?” He questions, silently admiring how Sakusa still looks so poised in the afterglow.

“Yah.” The spiker sighs, sounding relieved. “I think so...”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh. A part of him wants to joke about how learning hadn’t seemed priority today, but he knows there are other priorities yet unfinished.

“I’m sorry, for what I said last night.” He rakes fingers through wet hair. “I was tipsy, and…”

“I’m sorry, too.” The mutuality comes swift. “But what I said...still stands.”

_ You’re not just another conquest. _ Atsumu wants to object, but he resorts to other, more ambiguous explanations.

“I never actually slept with him, y’know.” He professes. “The guy in Nagoya, who ya can’t seem to forget.”

Sakusa slowly turns toward him, eyes widened in surprise.

He looks back earnestly. “I haven’t even touched anyone else since...we started this.”

“Why not?”

It’s the second question Sakusa craves to know, and the second Atsumu cannot answer. He is starting to fear this line of spontaneous interrogation,  _ so _ unrelated to their agreement,  _ so  _ dangerous to contemplate for too long. He began this whole ordeal as someone without attachments, but now he confronts things he cannot teach, cannot tune - and tempts him beyond measure.

_ Why not, indeed? _

_ Is it lo--- _

Reason still fails to manifest clearly, but temptation beckons. Atsumu tilts forward, intending to disguise his answer through a chaste kiss. But the gesture only feels more alarming once he starts it, and he retreats right as Sakusa’s eyes begin to close.

“Just to keep a clearer head, during our lessons.” He sins again and lies directly at the handsome face, still anticipating his next touch.

Those eyes open again just as Atsumu gets up, and he catches a glimpse of them, black seas flooded with loss.

“See ya tomorrow, Omi-kun.”

This time, he leaves first.


	7. consume affection to swallow lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tyvm for almost 200 subs. We thirsty.
> 
> tyvm (VM!!) also to all the creators of SakuAtsu NSFW Week content. This fic is not a part of it since the chapter doesn’t really fit any of the themes, but I was well-fed *prayer hands*
> 
> [You can also find me on Twitter here now (18+ only please)](https://twitter.com/asakuatsu). Idk if its feed will be very active (I’m only active on main), but it might end up becoming a separate NSFW account after this fic ends (?? not sure yet ??). You can DM/scream at me there if it’s more comfortable than commenting!

Even casual touches seem impossible now, what with the knowledge of their team’s perceptive glances and their growing mental distance, cast ironically against the amplified intimacy of their lessons. Atsumu now walks past Sakusa with conscious amounts of room left in-between, and refrains from even giving high-fives, unwilling to inspire more suspicion - or empty longing.

They continue to execute well on the court, taking into account the recent consequences of not doing so. He does not dare to imagine what might happen next time if the two of them are asked to stay behind again.

As such, Atsumu also saves all his post-practice showers for after he arrives home.

One week from the Adlers’ visit, the EJP Raijin journey in from Hiroshima for an afternoon match. It’s a tiring few hours with a victorious result, but a long-awaited reunion with Rintarou is the day’s main event.

“I’ll see ya later!” Motoya gestures from the sidelines as the two of them depart for dinner. Atsumu catches Sakusa approaching his cousin from the opposite direction. Their lines of sight cross briefly, but both pivot onward as if intended.

“Are ya cheatin’ on ‘Samu or somethin’ with your libero?” He turns his attention back to his old schoolmate, elbowing him at the waist. “Dun’ worry, I won’t tell.”

Rintarou rolls his eyes. “You  _ wish. _ You really hate that Osamu and I are twice as powerful at comebacks when together, don’t you?”

He would usually argue, but the word “together” smothers the cavity in his chest, sending his heart into an erratic pace.

“Yah, drives me kinda insane.” He says as steadily as possible.

Narrow eyes narrow even further. “Miya Atsumu? _ Agreeable?" _

“I’ve got a lot on my mind on these days.”

Rintarou’s body language is one of reluctant acceptance, but he questions no further, and other topics of chitchat persist all the way until they reach the ramen shop Atsumu had selected.

Their noodle bowls are halfway finished when Rintarou’s phone notification sounds.

“Oh.” He thumbs at the screen. “Motoya is coming here now.”

Atsumu nearly chokes on his slurp. “He is? What about...Omi-kun?”

“Wouldn’t Sakusa just text  _ you _ if he were coming?” Rintarou’s brows curl with confusion, but soften back into amusement soon after. “Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if you two jerks never speak outside of the gym.”

“I...I don’t think Omi-kun texts anyone on the team.”  _ Even in a group chat that includes a compromising picture of himself.  _ He thinks back to the busride incident.

“Well, Motoya says it’ll just be him.”

“Ah.” Atsumu feels both relief and disappointment at once.

The bottom of his bowl is already somewhat visible beneath thinning broth by the time Motoya dashes in, his exuberant energy immediately dissipating throughout the small space.

“Sakusa wanted to turn in early, but for me the night is still young!” He pairs his arrival with the emphatic announcement. “And I’m  _ starving." _

Rintarou quietly passes the menu as the libero situates himself on Atsumu’s other side.

“Atsumu-kun.” He slaps a shoulder blade playfully. “You good?”

The contact sends Atsumu’s head spinning with two things: the years-long confusion at Motoya’s supposed genetic association with Sakusa, and the opportunities this association now affords him.

“Very good, Moto-kun.” He can’t help but grin.

For once, the universe lets things go even more his way, via yet another noise coming from Rintarou’s phone.

“Hang on.” The middle blocker slides off his stool. “Gotta take this call.”

Atsumu spies his brother’s name on the screen before it follows its owner’s path.  _ Thank you, ‘Samu. _ He thinks that rare thought, and tilts his bowl until the last hint of salty liquid meets his tongue.

“So, how’s my cousin doing?” Motoya initiates once he settles back to a normal stance.

“Pretty good.” He answers matter-of-factly. “He plays well, obviously, and he’s more social now than when he first joined.”

“Other than tonight, apparently.” The cheerful young man leans his cheek against a stilted hand. “When I told him I was gonna meet up with Sunarin and you, he was  _ not _ interested in coming at all, haha.”

Already, Atsumu feels that he’s discovering more than he had intended.  _ So it isn’t just me trying to stay distant. _

“Can I ask ya somethin’ also, Moto-kun?”

“Hm? Sure.”

He speaks from the heart, more straightforward than he could ever manage with Sakusa himself. 

“What do ya know about him and...Ushiwaka?”

Almost immediately, Motoya straightens his back. “ _ Ushiwaka? _ Oh, you mean Sakusa’s feelings for him?” He raises one rounded eyebrow. “How do you even know about this?”

“He told me.”

Both eyebrows now elevate. “ _ Wow. _ If he told you about that, he must trust you a  _ lot." _

“I guess.” Atsumu feigns indifference. “I toss to him every day, so I think he’s gotta.”

“Hmm, ok...” Motoya tilts his head to the other side, as if analyzing the situation like an incoming spike. “But yah, Sakusa has been pining after him for  _ quite  _ a while now.”

“9 or 10 years, I think he said.”

“I think 10, if not a little longer.” The libero nods. “He missed quite a few chances along the way, but I think he might try again soon, what with the guy’s recent breakup and all.”

“Yah.” Atsumu takes a drink of his tea, its tepidness as bland as he now feels. “I think he will.”

“From all I could see, Sakusa was just inexperienced and lacked confidence. But once he gains more of that, it should be no problem at all - assuming, of course, Ushiwaka  _ accepts _ his confession.”

“Mm.” The tea leaves taste much more bitter than they should.

“Ha! I make this sound like they’re in high school!” Motoya exclaims suddenly, amused by himself. “But I think you probably know that in some ways, my cousin still is.”

Atsumu thinks of trembles against barely-there touches to the skin, and hesitant first kisses, and virginal reactions tumbling into orgasm. Yes, he knows. But he wants to know far more.

“This might be too forward,” His fingers grip his teacup with twice the usual strength. “But do ya think that Omi-kun is...in love with him?”

He fears that the question may have stepped across restricted lines, but Motoya’s open nature does not fail him.

_ "Love?" _ Thin irises look up to the ceiling, triggering deeper levels of thought undistracted by even the loud placement of a ramen order on the counter. “Mmm, maybe. I think Sakusa still has to learn what romantic love actually looks like to himself...but for all I know, it _ could _ look like 10 years of waiting.”

_ And not a few weeks of sex.  _ “Yah.” Atsumu’s heart lurches at the one-sided comparison. “That sounds ‘bout right.”

“Are you ok, Atsumu-kun?” His countermate questions in between swallows, seemingly still oblivious to the true context of their conversation. “This is such a funny topic for us to be chatting about, haha. You and my cousin must have a  _ very _ interesting relationship.”

He cannot dig up many proper adjectives to describe whatever it is they have, but the ones that manifest never manage to move past something chaotic - or worse, platonic.

“Ha...yah. Our relationship’s a funny one, alright.”

“Well, I’m just glad he has made more friends here.” Motoya grins, a sliver of seaweed peeking through pearly whites. “Take good care of him for me!”

_ And what if I wanna do more than that? _

-*-

He reaches home at that awkward time, when one must debate whether to remain awake or rest until another day. Sleep does not appear easy tonight, as Motoya’s recent answers track Atsumu across every room and every movement - like the chime of an insistent smoke alarm, echoing against dripping shower tiles, looming over a dull reflection as he brushes his teeth.

One week, and he still must conclude what he had agreed to start - has no idea how to finish.  _ Improvise. _ He can only recall that assertive request spoken under artificial rain.

And thus Atsumu follows his instincts, however wrongful they may be, digging up an old issue of  _ Volleyball Monthly _ to check a vital detail.

Minutes later, he is knocking on another familiar door. It swings partially open to reveal somewhat startled eyes above a tense figure, already dressed for sleep.

“Hey.” 

“Miya…” Sakusa peeks out to check both sides of the corridor, clearly more concerned about being caught than their time in the team showers. “...what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, I know it’s sudden.” He hooks both thumbs into his waistband. “But do ya wanna…”

Realization stares back at him, topped with a hint of longing.

“Yes.” The door opens further, and Sakusa steps aside. “Yah.”

It takes a single approaching step for the taller man’s expression to scrunch up, apparently detecting the one element Atsumu had made sure to prepare for the night.

“What is...why do you smell like that?” The confused words trail his entering form, prompting Atsumu to turn around.

“According to  _ Volleyball Monthly _ a while back, this is Ushijima’s favorite cologne.” He states flatly, trying to not react to his own smothering scent. “I had it, too, so I figured---”

The spiker is rendered speechless for a moment, and his subsequent closing of the door is halfway to a slam.

“You...you didn’t have to go that far.” Sakusa utters into the wall, back facing him.

“We’re gettin’ closer to the Adlers game, Omi-kun.” He responds with the truth, hoping that each iteration will urge acceptance. “It’ll be better...easier this way.”

Neither agreement nor disagreement comes, just a deep sigh as Sakusa paces quickly past him.

“What are we doing tonight, then?” Any previous inkling of his anticipation reshapes into disinterest. “It’s not...messy, is it?”

Atsumu pretends to not notice the change, or feel crushed by it. “No, it shouldn’t be. We can even just stay in your living ro--”

“You can come in here.” Sakusa interrupts, already standing below his bedroom door frame. “If it’s easier.”

Alarms go off in Atsumu’s head once more, despite the seemingly ordinary suggestion. Then again, none of this is ordinary at all. These ups and downs, rough terrains within the maze of ambiguities he may never escape from. And even if a possible exit route forges, Sakusa unwittingly creates reset after reset, tethering him back to the very beginning.

He enters anyway, baited as always by the unknowns that serve as backdrop to his teachings. The simple room is, indeed, symbolic of a beginning - a reminder of their very first session just beyond the wall. Like that space, it’s also awashed in a clean, plain color scheme, lit by the glow of a nightstand lamp and with no sign of clutter or dust in sight. This time, however, the sole visible pillows lay against a headboard, tempting him with the prospect of a night’s rest - but one that cannot ever take place on this particular bed.

The thought diffuses into tinges of distress throughout his nerves, and Atsumu tempers them the only way he knows how. A gentle tug, and Sakusa falls into him in a way that feels far too natural, their lips wedging together with dangerous but comforting familiarity. He quickly pairs the rhythm of his tongue with wanton touches below, palming at the covered crotch already grinding against him, drawing moans and a hardening growth.

In between kisses, he peels off Sakusa’s clothing piece by piece. But even as everything falls haphazardly to the floor, there is no complaint about the jarring disarray, only the baring of skin until a body resembles the starkness of the room itself. And when Atsumu pauses ministrations to roam hands brazenly over Sakusa’s ass, sliding down the only remaining barrier, the spiker steps out of his underwear and practically kicks it aside.

Still fully clothed, Atsumu nudges him towards the edge of the queen-sized bed, then downward until Sakusa is seated upon it. There, he finally removes his shirt with a single swoop before lowering into a kneel, nestling himself in between two athletic thighs that rival his own. Sakusa’s hands immediately land on his shoulders, giving an appreciative but uncertain squeeze.

“What are you…” 

Atsumu leans forward, placing his next kiss upon the tip of a burgeoning erection.

“So. Blowjobs.”

“Oh.”

His lips pucker again, this time pressing against the shaft’s bottom side, lingering a few seconds longer than before. 

_ "Oh..." _ Sakusa’s entire body twitches, while the inside of his thighs begin a transformation into gooseflesh.

The next move starts out clinical in his head, but as soon as Atsumu’s tongue gets a taste of salty skin, he reflexively laps at it again, and again - satiating a hunger only he is conscious of. Sakusa’s flavor is almost too clean to be stimulating, but the sight of his saliva coating the flushed arousal still triggers something untamed within himself, like few other views or fantasies are capable of.

When hips jerk once in his direction, Atsumu retreats and looks up again.

The face that confronts him from above is breathtaking, bathed in the rosy tint that only ever appears during their trysts. Within unblinking eyes, that blend of realization and longing has already returned. But there also exists a dash of dilemma, as if wondering once more about inadequately answered questions from their recent past.

Atsumu wants to answer truthfully, to see if his own head could rest upon those pillows until daybreak, but he is not 10 years of waiting, so he can only salvage what remains his for the next few days. Despite his improvisation tonight, there is still a script, and it possesses neither emotion nor truth.

“Like masturbatin’, start gently and slow.” He describes exactly what had just taken place. Clinical. Unfeeling.

His mouth welcomes more of Sakusa’s length before pulling back again, but not before letting an elongated lick trace around the surface like an afterthought. Once more, hips chase the tantalizing touch, but he puts firm hands on restless thighs to maintain control. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse - he takes in longer and longer, until the front half shamelessly glistens and the moans above him begin to stutter.

“Usin’ yer hands might also be helpful.”

Shifting force to one palm, he frees the other and wraps it around the base, black curls tickling his knuckle. The twists that pair with his next approach matches up perfectly, the speed of his hand’s turns nearly wedded to his mouth’s existing tempo.

“ _ Mmm...!" _ The additional contact draws out the most unrestrained noise yet, and beneath half-closed eyes, Atsumu spies Sakusa’s fists wrinkling his duvet, inflicting yet another tarnish upon his kempt room.

He flicks his tongue, knocking tip against tip. “If ya wanna put yer hand somewhere else, my hair is fine, too.”

Five familiar fingers thread through his locks almost immediately, curling around to the back with gentle slides. The movement is much tamer than Atsumu expects, though he knows that may not last.

He clears his throat, readying himself to deliver the next line.

“Just to note, I’m gonna guess Ushijima will be bigger than ya, or me--”

The grip against his head tightens suddenly. “Miya.” Sakusa’s confusion finally escapes from his fog of desire. “Why...are you talking like this?”

Atsumu meets his stare, sending chilliness into heat. “It’s how I’ve always coached ya.”

“Not...last time in the showers.”

“That was because we had to resolve our argument, no?” He shakes his head, both to decline and to purge those memories. “I won’t do it again.”

There is a refrain of dejection, the same that had clouded the space between them so many times. Sakusa’s jaw falls slack, and Atsumu almost wishes for another argument to sound, for him to have an excuse to rewrite tonight’s script and convey all his genuineness until morning. But for once, the reset he expects does not come.

“You can keep going, then.” The statement is bland in its delivery, as if the words had been penned alongside Atsumu’s own dialogue.

For once, he has been deserted - left lost in the maze.

“Be careful to not use yer teeth.”

Without warning, he engulfs Sakusa’s cock almost to the hilt, hoping that the abrupt sensation would make him - both of them - forget all else. There is a brief awareness that the erection had softened somewhat, but a few hums from his throat revive it again.

Everything backfires on him from that moment on.

The length pulsates within Atsumu’s mouth, velvety indulgence almost insistent on  _ something _ through its enticing heat and savoriness - an appeal for some semblance of emotion, or truth.

_ Don’t, Kiyoomi. _

Nails now dig into his scalp, but no force acts upon his head, and Atsumu easily releases with a smack of his lips.

“Remember...only take...as far as yer comfortable goin’.” Breathing heavily, he tries to deny the appeal with an irrelevant smokescreen.

But when he swallows Sakusa again, a drip of precome lands on his tongue, and there is only clarity connected to that familiar tartness - so invigorating that it even overwhelms the excessive cologne in his masquerade. An unabashed groan comes at the end of a sigh, though he can’t be certain whose chest it originates from. There still is no pressure from Sakusa’s lone hand, but Atsumu’s head begins to bob hastily of its own accord, chasing for more of that essence, for yet another hint of pleasure through taste or sound.

He knows what this means, has known for longer than he is willing to admit. To possess fervent desire, but also tender need outside of concealed spaces; to endure that fear of denial, and return over and over without fail; to be overcome with guilt at the mere thought of being with any other; to pretend to teach, while his heart only wishes to please; to fantasize about mornings instead of nights; to imagine himself, somehow surpassing that decade where he bears no worth.

One after another, bullet points to a lesson, designed by and for Miya Atsumu alone.

_ Is it? _

_ Yes. _

This, this is what it means to love.

It’s emotion, and it’s truth - but the worst of their kind. The exit to this maze proves far more daunting than its beginning, and Atsumu dashes between the two ends furiously, distrustful of either’s security.

Within reality, he brings Sakusa to the brink time and again, only to retract at the critical moments and free his lips. There, he recites the last of his deceptions, each camouflaging a facet of this awakening.

“Ya can tease with yer tongue whenever it’s free.”

_ Kiyoomi, I only ever wanna taste ya... _

“Try not to stop. If yer mouth is tired, keep yer hand goin’.”

_ Kiyoomi, does it all feel good? _

“Speed up, when ya think the time is right.”

_ Kiyoomi, let me be the only one to... _

Sakusa comes before his thought finishes, robust frame splintered apart by the countless trembles that cascade down his muscles. His hand finally pushes Atsumu’s head with the slightest force, barely enough to nudge him further into bucking hips making the most of this climax. Soon, ribbons of cum spill directly into Atsumu’s throat, quenching what remains of his physical thirst, but not any needs beyond there. 

_ Kiyoomi, what is love to ya? _

“Oh... _ god..." _ Final words choke out amidst Sakusa’s expression of blissed agony.

_ I’m looking at mine. _

He releases the satisfied member long after its last drop, and pretends to not admire the debauched portrait on display.

“Got all that, Omi-kun?” 

Affirmative comes in the form of a dazed nod, and half-alert eyes sweep down his topless body before landing on the bulge below.

“Can...can I…”

Still lost in thought, Atsumu barely registers his own arousal. But reciprocation between them had always been routine, and in his stupor, reflexes take hold.

“Yah, go ahead.”

He’s seated on the bed before his mind catches up, discarding his sweatpants and underwear into the same pile on the floor. Instead of objecting to the mess, Sakusa emulates the position switches that occasionally occur between them on the court, sliding into the same kneel that Atsumu had just been in.

Wide shoulders spread his setter thighs apart, and a pink tongue darts out to moisten keen lips. Atsumu feels even more naked under the curious scrutiny, but his cock relishes the attention, standing half mast, a snake hypnotizing its charmer.

He regrets succumbing to his reflexes when Sakusa stretches his neck, and when that first, lush touch inspires torment above delight.

_ Don’t, Kiyoomi. _

The repeated warning is less for the one pleasuring him than for Atsumu himself, a plea to somehow reseal that fracturing facade his affections threaten to rupture. But he becomes ravaged by the same eagerness that had bitten endless bruises into his torso, that had always echoed Atsumu’s own wish to please. Before long, Sakusa is sucking almost too greedily, as if trying to revive their lost passion, to hit reset once again.

_ Don’t, Kiyoomi. Please don’t make me fall for ya even more. _

When euphoric warmth begins to surround his entire length, Atsumu finally concedes to all the alarms and cautions that had blared all evening. Hands that had taken root on the duvet move to seize Sakusa’s shoulders, slowly pulling him off of their sensitive connection.

“Wait--Omi-kun, sorry.” He gasps, already missing what he had ceased himself. “I...I don’t think I can tonight.”

Sakusa shifts backward further, out of his reach, eyes startled. “You...can’t? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s me. Ya did just fine.” Smoothing his hair back nervously, Atsumu closes his eyes to shut out that difficult sight. “It’s ok, I don’t have to come, as long as ya learned what to do.”

“But---”

“Yer partner won’t always get there.” He bends to collect all his clothes, each piece now resembling another mistake. “That’s just reality.”

“But  _ your _ libido has always been so high...”

In any other circumstance, Atsumu may have scoffed behind the t-shirt he’s pulling on, but he can only admit to his current condition.

“Just have too much on my mind right now.”

The vague confession fails to appease. As he gingerly puts on his underwear, careful to not disturb what still remains of his erection, Atsumu notices coal-black irises imbued with concern while they observe his movements.

“Hey.” A fog of worry threatens to impair him, but he stays on script. “I’m not lyin’. Your technique was fine.”

Sakusa ends up scoffing first. “My  _ technique." _

“Yah.” The coldness both wounds and relieves, and so Atsumu pushes further, leaving the prospect of reset an impossibility. “Ushijima would like it, trust me. Anyone would wanna blowjob like th--”

“But Miya.” A calloused palm presses into his bare left knee, reluctant yet beseeching. “What the hell do _ you _ want?”

So many questions had passed between them over the course of the night, but Atsumu knows from deep down that this would be the last one. And after endless failures to lure honesty from him, on this day and all the previous, it also feels like a last chance.

“I just want ya to feel ready.” He squanders the chance willingly, and removes the hand in favor of slipping on his final piece of clothing. “Yer only days away from endin’ ten years of waitin’, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa stands up then, his nude form beautiful with all its intrinsic strength, but strikingly vulnerable as it lays down upon the covered mattress, back facing Atsumu’s direction. Atsumu watches as the body slowly bends itself into a fetal position, and wonders if that’s how elongated yearning will eventually contort his whole being as well.

“Yah, I’m ready.” The resting man mutters at last, voice muffled by his wrists.

“Good.”

“You can go now. I need to brush my teeth, and sleep.”

He obliges the request as he always does, even if aching accompanies his obedience. But as he stands, Atsumu does look back one more time, at skin once pliant to his touch, at pillows both weighted and unweighted. The unoccupied half of the bed seems as empty as his hopes, the shadows spilling over it symbolizing absent sunrise he would never feel from there. The rest of the room lay spoiled, each proof of his visit a paltry batch of chaos, but with no sign that the owner intends for restoration any time soon.

Silently but quickly, Atsumu smooths the duvet until all wrinkles fade, and folds Sakusa’s clothes with the utmost care, returning the space to its original state - a beginning he can reset. _This is love, too._ He thinks. _This is_ _what I can still give._

“Good night.” He whispers when he finishes, the last wisps of a pungent cologne marking his departure.


	8. collapse columns where they stand frail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter, say hi here.](https://twitter.com/asakuatsu)

“No. Wait.”

Atsumu feels bare skin against his back before the sound of footsteps ever register. His hand is centimeters away from the doorknob, but a slightly taller body now folds over him, its added weight countering the ease of any further movements. Staunch arms encircle his waist, knotting fingers before the knots within his stomach.

"I misspoke." Sakusa mumbles into his nape. “I’m not ready yet.”

It's not the first time either of their departures are paused midway - but it's the first with actual physical pressure towards reconsideration, a behest through touch to properly evaluate what comes next. _Don't, Kiyoomi._ He silently pleads again, though he knows _Don't, Atsumu_ is what he should actually demand.

“Teach me something else.” One hand disentangles and drifts down to Atsumu's groin, already reacting to their closeness. “Show me something that...you can finish with.”

He bites back a groan as he’s caressed through fabric, assertive kneads reviving what had just begun to tame.

“I don’t like to leave things unfinished, Miya.”

He retrieves the hand dangling by the doorknob, clutches the long fingers still resting against his abdomen, and slides upward until Sakusa can also discern his increasingly erratic heartbeats. The thumps knock on a different door, beckoning him to open and accept this unwanted guest. _Don't, Atsumu_ , his mind admonishes again. But there is soaring pleasure between his thighs and tempered beauty in their embrace - lowering his guards, turning his locks. No matter how planned his lessons, or how calculated his resistance, nothing prevails over this moment of spontaneity, designed by impulse rather than logic.

So he opens that door instead of the one he stands behind, and surrenders himself to the measure of love that enters.

“Get...get dressed and come with me, then.” 

Sakusa is gone the moment the invitation sounds, leaving him shivering from the abrupt chill. But the spiker reemerges from the restroom mere seconds later, donning a black cloth robe cinched at the waist. Suddenly, he returns to being Atsumu’s greatest enigma, as if all his remaining secrets could be unlocked by the loosening of a strap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He tears his head away, and offers a palm instead. "Come on."

A real door opens, and they sneak down the hallway to pass five more, hands linked in the same fashion as their time in Tempozan. There would be no sufficient explanation if anyone witnesses this brief journey, but the thought only helps Atsumu feel carefree for the first time all night. In this moment, his only burden rests with the next seven seconds, rather than the next seven days.

Unfortunately, those seconds pass far too quickly, and soon he is already fumbling with his key. With only one free hand, it takes some extra maneuvering, but Atsumu ultimately manages. No hesitation passes as they slip in together, safely hidden behind walls once more. Despite the renewed security, Sakusa remains more careful than earlier, not initiating anything that might bring this moment to an untimely end again. And so Atsumu takes his usual lead, closing their proximity almost as soon as the door closes.

“Wait.” A raised hand halts his approach just before their lips meet. “Can you...wash up one more time first?”

"Yah...of course."

He knows their bodies had both sweated their share from the prior encounter, so the request doesn't come as a surprise. It’s an easy detour towards the restroom, with him stripping off garments along the way, and not closing the door on purpose.

When the showerhead turns on, it occurs to him that first and foremost, he would be ridding himself of the cologne.

The running water forces his eyes half shut, but he detects Sakusa moving to lean against the doorframe, watching his round of cleansing with the same focus that he exudes right before an opponent's serve. Atsumu feigns ignorance, but he ensures that the movements of his hands are more languid than usual as they traverse across his skin - especially every time it brushes his cock, finally freed again from its previous restraints.

He feels eyes linger on him for another few minutes, before the tall silhouette disappears.

"Yer not gonna join me, Omi-kun?" He yells, masking disappointment with tease.

"Not this time."

He's surprised to even receive an answer, and the words drive him to a faster finish. Beneath hot rain, he considers the next parts of his agenda - preparation, position, pleasure. For now, however, it’s lather, rinse, no repeat. 

A halfhearted drying of his body later, he walks undressed into his room, forfeiting all the clothes he had already removed. Sakusa rests on the left side of his bed, seemingly deep in thought as he scrutinizes the ceiling. As with before, he simply waits, and Atsumu obliges by fulfilling all the steps that still remain. There is the mirror, this time dragged to a spot adjacent to the bed, allowing it to duplicate their profiles. Lube and tissues reemerge from his nightstand drawer, followed by a fresh towel, which he lays upon the open area of the duvet.

Sakusa does not look at him until he finally climbs onto the towel itself, the mattress dipping further beneath their combined weights, adjusting and readjusting until Atsumu's movements cease. Now side-by-side, they're a reversal from minutes ago, with his nudity contrasting Sakusa's dressed state. For the time being, there isn’t another struggled farewell - only that promise to complete an unfinished lesson, of proper reciprocation. And even if these next moments are all transactional again, Atsumu wants, and loves to want, and wants to love, no matter how detrimental either proves to be by the end.

"Kiyoomi." He breathes the first and only lyric of his love song.

As if agreeing to permission given, a sleeved arm gently pulls his neck forward, not into a kiss, but a long, soft inhale against its cleansed column.

“That’s better…” The faint whisper perplexes him, but the thought fades away much faster than the touches that ensue.

Sakusa - _no, Kiyoomi_ \- Kiyoomi presses lip-shaped flowers along his jawline before sealing their mouths together, a zealous tongue burrowing deeply, as if seeking the last bits of his own essence that had been set free within.

Without breaking their kiss, Atsumu reaches down to untie the robe - that last door, unlocked. The fabric soon falls open to reveal a familiar shade of skin and a burgeoning hardness, no doubt inspired by his shower performance.

“Liked whatcha saw enough to get another?” He leans back, withholding himself in exchange for a response.

Kiyoomi pouts, avoiding the tease in his eyes. “Nothing I hadn’t already seen.”

“But ya still liked it--- _oh_ …”

A soft yet merciless stroke mutes him immediately, its effect a far worse taunt than his words. Atsumu chokes back breaths and ruts into the contact, already too far gone to ever retaliate. When strength and rationale eventually return, he shifts backward further and further, forcing Kiyoomi to slide along in a rather silly-looking chase.

Once the other body replaces his atop the towel, Atsumu escapes completely by standing upright. The action is met by a grumble, until he reaches forward again to slip the robe off beautifully wide shoulders.

“Ok....I’m gonna--” Out of instinct, he begins to instruct.

“No. Don’t say anything else.” Kiyoomi grumbles once more as he shrugs black linen completely away. “Just...show, don’t tell.”

He freezes momentarily, wondering if utter quiet is even a possibility for himself. But the stare that confronts him is beyond serious, and so Atsumu does his best to obey. With careful pushes, he begins to rearrange Kiyoomi’s body, already pliant to his efforts.

_Position._ He invests in this second part, folding limbs, nudging parts. It only takes a few simple steps to have long legs kneeling and a sinewy torso supported upon bent elbows. Before him, Kiyoomi’s ass lifts in the air, splendid and inviting, but never before touched.

When Atsumu snaps the lube’s cap open, he catches the spiker’s brief panic in the mirror - only the second display of such an emotion since these sessions began. He flashes a warm, sympathetic look as he begins to spread the gel generously over inner thighs, but quickly hides it again behind a mask of concentration. During these heated yet wordless moments, he now fears that his eyes may give away too much. So instead, he distracts by moving onto the underside of Kiyoomi’s most intimate parts, massaging more dollops into sensitive skin and drawing mews of approval.

Once finished, he settles himself in between spread calves, and prudently shoves legs together, creating that provocative seam where flesh now meets flesh.

“Tell me if ya want me to stop.” He breaks the vow of silence just once, to declare what he must.

Kiyoomi glances back via reflection, giving an adamant shake of his head.

And so Atsumu continues, lifting his cock slightly before leaning forward. The tip probes, the contact enough to inspire hisses from his lungs. But soon, the sight of his shaft sinking between muscular thighs becomes more arousing than the sensation itself.

Kiyoomi moans deeply into the towel, gradually coming undone by the tantalizing slide. The resulting squeeze, innocent yet relentless, causes something within Atsumu to nearly implode.

By the time he recovers, the dark gaze from one visible eye regards him within the mirror again, pensive yet stormier than before. Atsumu also sees himself, victim of a current storm, grasping an arching figure for purchase while an unmistakable aura of affection emanates through his own irises.

He clutches bent fingers around a tapered waist, and begins to rock his hips in a dreamlike pace. The slow drags bring overwhelming pleasure in elongated doses, and the bedroom fills with his ineptitude towards silence.

“Ah…Kiyoomi…” Atsumu barely recognizes himself within the gasps. “Kiyoomi…”

Allowing natural rhythms to take over, he folds over the taller man, a single arm snaking forward to appreciate all the bumps of a stiffened abdomen. When his hand approaches Kiyoomi’s chest, the spiker suddenly envelopes it into a grasp, shifting his balance so that only one elbow now supports them both. Together, their grip digs into a solid sternum, the organ it protects pulsating erratically beneath.

  
Hips pumping everlasting bliss into his nerves, Atsumu blindly bites the rolling muscles of an alluring back, sinking teeth into both shoulder blades and curling vertebrae, from waist all the way up to the base of Kiyoomi’s skull. Even with eyes closed, he senses from the twist of bones how the other’s head is still turned towards their reflection. And when he sneaks a gander for himself, Atsumu nearly loses control again at the scene.

Kiyoomi watches their undulations in the mirror, expression thoroughly seduced, but also embodying its own form of seduction. A slackened jaw allows both breaths and voice the expedited travel they demand, each sound more brief, but also more profane than the previous. At the end of a shapely torso, he starts to match each of Atsumu’s thrusts with a backwards push, bumping thighs into hip before repeating the cycle. And their cocks, at the threshold of everything, smoothly flowing together beneath morphing shadows - skin-to-skin, flesh-on-flesh, yearning to siphon one another of all restraints.

_Yes, Atsumu…_ Those overcast eyes seem to howl. Not _Miya_ , but _Atsumu_. Not _don’t_ , but _yes_ , and _please_ , and all those other words that had brought them to the brink of wanted catastrophes.

_Could this--is this, also love?_ Resting his head against an increasingly rigid spine, he nearly speaks aloud.

_But for whom, Kiyoomi?_

“A... _ah_ ….”

Moans shorten to their absolute limit, and there is a sudden tug at Atsumu’s arm, stretching it until both their hands relocate to Kiyoomi’s mouth. The pressure upon his moving erection constricts even further, as if needing it to belong exactly there, and nowhere else. _Come home_ , a silent command coaxes.

_Come_.

“Oh _fuck_ , Kiyoomi…” At last, he becomes consumed by the storm, its forceful gusts wringing rapture from him to the point of torture. But as ordered, Atsumu finds shelter just in time, and enters a paradise that only showers him in everything lustrous.

“ _A---!_ ”

Within that place, a lone syllable begins something that never ends. In his stupor, Atsumu thinks the unstated rest are being bitten into his wrist, but pain concedes to satisfaction as they spillover together, spurts of their milky liquid gathering into tiny pools along the expanse of the towel.

They collapse sideways, chest still glued to an arched back, legs entangled and breaths wild, every moment of the ungraceful fall captured upon glass. An oversized palm continues to curve around Atsumu's knuckle, keeping their hands joined and visible in the mirror - but unlike nights ago, they return to rest snugly along Kiyoomi’s ribcage, and not around an erection. Atsumu peeks at their joint reflection through where a long neck connects to wide shoulders, the concave almost too natural a frame for the raw portrait it now encloses.

At this stage, he usually questions whether something had been properly learned, but as he discovers those new bite marks on his wrist, glaring red even in the midst of their flushed bodies, Atsumu hungers for more discoveries beyond his means. Here they exist, wrapped in an embrace reserved for lovers, but without relationship attributed to their names. So many other questions, unanswered, barely answered - even if he himself is guilty of creating such ambiguities, he knows it’s time to accept knowledge he has feared to learn.

"Kiyoomi."

Their gazes meet on the polished surface, initiating an encounter with those false selves - lying together in illusion, lying through what's spoken.

“Do ya love him? Ushijima?” He lies, as he does not actually wish to know. “Ya’ve thought about him for so long…and went through all this, for his sakes.”

The faint thumps within Kiyoomi's chest quicken, tapping out senseless morse codes that communicate too much, yet too little.

“Is that...what love means?”

Within glass, a pair of melancholic eyes, adrift in the aftermath of the tempest. They seek his gold beacons and their guidance - his golds, but only in hue and not character. Behind each of Atsumu’s blinks, an absence of gilded glimmer, a surge of gloom.

_No. Not necessarily, but..._

“Yah, that’s what it actually means, sometimes.” Atsumu liberates said gloom, allowing its dim gossamers to weave fabrications. “In the end sex is just...sex, no matter how good it feels. But yer commitment to all this, on top of so many years of waitin’... _that_ , to me, could be real love.”

The clutch upon his hand tightens, its force immense.

“If that’s what it’s supposed to mean.” Within their portrait, lips barely move despite the audible words. “Then yes, I think I must...love him.”

It’s his release between Kiyoomi’s thighs, his bites that bruise Kiyoomi's back, his pulse against Kiyoomi’s heartbeat. His, his, _his_. _His_ Sakusa, _his_ Kiyoomi, _his_ love. But "his" cannot become "him," and "his" has never meant "mine." He knows now, painfully well - the way "his" has always been another illusion, a possessive only within that mirror, a likeness that perceives Miya Atsumu and Miya Atsumu alone.

He pulls his marked wrist from the grasp sheltering it, and turns away until eyes fully avert glass.

“Then that, I think, is the last thing I needed to help ya learn, Kiyoomi.” His body stiffens, despite the tremble in his voice. “To be honest, I probably didn’t need to teach ya anything in the first place.”

Kiyoomi rolls over then, a now untouchable mirage looming above, long arms caging him as if fearing another escape attempt.

“No. Wait.” He repeats the same request from much earlier. “Teach me more, Miya. I _know_ this isn’t everything there is.”

_Don't, Atsumu._

At last, he finds emptiness where there had been motivation, and heeds the warning once and for all.

“I’ve got nothin’ else left in me.” Atsumu smiles, sincere and solemn. “The rest...he’ll take care of ya.”

Kiyoomi’s posture weakens, the shift lowering his head until it gently rests upon the broadness of Atsumu’s chest, his line of sight tilting back in the mirror’s direction. From Atsumu’s angle, he can’t decipher whether the younger man has lost himself in the predictions he had just described, or if he has also been besieged by some sort of hollowness.

He stares at ink black tresses, documenting the way each lock loosely coils, the disarray they form over regal features. Lips - chamomile, mint. Moles - one kiss, then two. Hands - held, then holding. Snapshots of what had been them once upon a time, arranged into an album marked "His" but not "Theirs," meant to be browsed during the worst bouts of loneliness. Before long, loneliness morphs into fatigue, rushing him into the false paradise he wishes to continue dwelling in.

“Yer ready now, Kiyoomi.” He mumbles as a different darkness consumes. “Everything will be fine...”

“Don’t, Atsumu…”

It’s the last whisper he hears before exhaustion takes over, but the words take on a different tenor this time, as if bearing a new meaning, as if muttered by another into his skin.

-*-

Atsumu awakens in solitude to a spotless room, an ironic sign of Kiyoomi’s recent presence, rather than the lack thereof. A blanket covers his nude body, but only his reflection accompanies him, a shadow still trapped within memories from the dead of night, now blighting the visiting swathes of dawn.

His sight bores into the glass until imaginary cracks fan out in all directions, spreading branches of destruction mimicking his personal state.

-*-

And so their escapades end, one week premature, and the remaining days pass by on a crestfallen whim, without fruitful interactions to mark any epilogue. Atsumu stops counting down, and salvages what he can recall in bits and pieces, glass shards from a broken mirror dropped from his hands. The hours spent at practice are also the last hours of their reality; every hint of Kiyoomi’s presence, every whiff of his scent, every murmur of his voice - they serve as the weakest kind of glue, dealing out incomplete mends that cannot ease his nightly heartache.

The imminent day arrives when he still has dozens of cracks to fill.

"The Schweiden...Adlers!!!!"

Amidst modest cheers, they watch their white-clad opponents exit the player tunnel one by one. When Ushijima's name is announced, followed by the appearance of his colossal frame, he catches Kiyoomi looking intently across the court.

Whistles and yells fall wayside to his concentration, and Atsumu sets in Ushijima's direction again and again, each higher and mightier than the previous. Kiyoomi isn't the one to connect the majority of the spikes, and the tosses don't always conclude with a satisfying score, but every play becomes detrimentally personal - blatant challenges of the emotional kind. 

_Can ya do better?_ The arcs of the ball question.

_How will ya feel about those last marks I left?_ His bitter side taunts.

_Will ya love him well?_ His silent stares interrogate.

Ushijima remains stoic throughout their confrontations, unintimidated. The only breaches to his facade appear whenever his eyes meet Kiyoomi's through the net. What exchanges between them is a glint, a force, a pry at Atsumu's fingers as he tries to hold on to fragile glass.

And when he eventually suffers defeat in numbers, Atsumu comes to accept total loss snaking through bruised joints. His mirror, no longer secured, falls again, taking all its reflections of what had been and what could have been into unknown depths.

His concession speech takes the form of brief words, spoken softly from the locker room exit.

"Kiyoomi." He flashes a sincere smile, perhaps his most seamless disguise yet. "Good luck."

Kiyoomi towels sweat from his brows, both enigmatic eyes hidden behind terry cloth, and nods.

-*-

His footsteps home prove excruciating, the aching of muscles in his chest harsher than the soreness throughout his limbs. Within the false comforts of home, Atsumu barely puts down his equipment when the text notification comes.

**Captain Meian**

_If anyone on the team is contacted by media, we have no comment on the matter._

_What matter, Meian-san?_ He tumbles onto the bed and begins to type back, but the answer arrives before he presses send.

The link to a Twitter hashtag arrives on his screen. Within the preview thumbnail, a bolded headline glares back at him.

**"Sakusa of MSBY Black Jackals and Ushijima of Schweiden Adlers: Caught Holding Hands Post-Match!"**

It's a series of photos in low exposure, barely revealing silhouettes beneath a streetlight just outside of the stadium. Blurry, pixelated - but the massive heights and faint details on clothing are unmistakable to anyone with basic knowledge of their sport. There is Kiyoomi, both arms extending into the space between two standing figures, and Ushijima, playing opposite in a different fashion. They're joined by long fingers linked at hip-level - not overly intimate in any way, but just enough to surpass friendliness.

_Lesson two._ Atsumu thinks of hands naively held in a living room. Those early, tentative touches that had towed him towards a treacherous plummet - but one he had willingly taken. Further below, the mirror finally smashes against solid ground, splintering into dangerous fragments that shoot back in his direction. 

But above the mask and sunken within monotone pixels, there are crinkles captured at the corner of Kiyoomi's eyes. By now, Atsumu knows the rare display of elation they represent. It's a comforting sight, somehow, grinding glass shards into fine sand before any razor-sharp edges damage him beyond recovery.

He puts his phone to sleep, and tries to wrap himself in the restful solace of Kiyoomi’s happiness, rather than his own shattered ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [F I N]
> 
>   
> Just kidding. Finalized total chapters. Magic number: 10. Two more weeks!
> 
> [Twitter, scream HOW COULD YOU here.](https://twitter.com/asakuatsu) (Or comment, if that's your jam)


	9. fuse verity into deceptive acts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please mind the new tags ty
> 
> also a HUGE thank you to everyone for over 600 kudos on this fic. I’m truly overwhelmed by the reception, especially considering all the pain you all probably had to endure <3
> 
> this chapter also took me over the 100K words milestone on ao3 (including all my other fics that is)...what is life?? sakuatsu, apparently
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/asakuatsu) (18+ only)

When Atsumu walks in this morning, the gym lights illuminate brighter somehow, as if signaling brand-new starts. Nevertheless, his vision blurs to the point of dizziness, inciting rebellion against a fate that demands to be crystal clear.

His teammates greet him with tedious words that he barely understands, so he responds with effortless grunts.  _ Routine, routine, _ the mantra recites somewhere within. He needs to abide, execute, forget, move on - but Kiyoomi is still nowhere to be seen by the time warm-ups begin, and the lack of closure gnaws at Atsumu’s sides as he attempts to stretch away the pains of the night.

“Before we get started today, everyone please come over here for a minute.” Meian makes the request when his quads begin to beg for relief.

Atsumu suddenly finds himself seated amongst teammates, without recollection of exactly how or when he had moved over. What he does perceive is the muted commotion all around him, filled with curiosities and the occasional glance in his direction. He knows they’re likely discussing how he had not responded to any texts from the previous night - all the random “hey”s and the concerned “are you okay”s that he had left on read since daybreak.

He wraps arms around his tucked legs, and stares blankly at a wrinkle upon his right knee.

The double doors closest to their gathering swing open then, with Coach Foster entering first, followed by Kiyoomi, both hands hidden within his pockets. He typically towers over the coach, but the slouch he carries creates an opposite effect.

Atsumu glances briefly at their entrance, but returns to his wrinkle when Kiyoomi’s hands slip out from their confinement. In his memories, the slant of every line, the texture of every callus - long fingers that had once held his with such vigor and desire, yet they now belong to another.

Hands. The site of their first touch. The last of all he must leave behind.

Seconds later, the latecomers stand in front of their seated forms, and Kiyoomi’s back straightens again.

“Good morning.” Coach Foster greets warmly, but quickly concedes the floor. “Sakusa-san wished to say something to the team.”

Kiyoomi begins with a deep bow. Atsumu leans slightly forward, bending his own back while concealing half his face behind raised knees. 

“I’m very sorry, for any inconvenience.” The first words reverberate from the wooden flooring that first encounters them.

_ Inconvenience. _ He sulks. It is, perhaps, an accurate description for everyone else, but for him, nothing less than an outright devaluation of his torment.

“Wakatoshi-kun and I...please support us.”

It hurts far more than Atsumu expects - more than the utterance of the wrong name against his neck, more than the wrong admission spoken during afterglow.  _ Support us,  _ the appeal is earnest, bearing both hope and apology for the future, but sparing no consideration for the past.

His teeth grind together, the resulting force attempting to prevent frustration from mapping his face. All around, worried expressions begin to turn towards him one by one - Shouyou, Koutarou, even the captain from up front. Like himself, they doubt his ability to accept, much less support.

But as the gazes linger, his teammates’ faces gradually morph into clones of himself, many dimmed orbs of gold questioning, admonishing. Before long, he confronts mirrorless reflections, each voicing out loud those pertinent questions he should’ve asked his own mind.

“Can ya do better?”

“How do ya feel about those last marks ya left?”

“Will ya love him well?”

“Wha...what?” Atsumu beholds duplicated features far more numerous than the existence of a single twin, his entire body frozen with horror.  _ This is a trick, an illusion, a dre--- _

“Will you love me well, Atsumu?” The only face in the room that hasn’t transformed asks from behind a sorrowful veil.

_ “Kiyoomi…I…” _

A series of knocks jolts Atsumu back into consciousness.

He is splayed out over his bed, still dressed in the same clothes he had walked home in. Darkness cloaks the walls of his room, betraying the actuality of time, and all the seconds that had never passed.

Upon his chest, the slight weight of his most trusted device, also containing the objects of his greatest dread. When Atsumu snatches it and wakes the screen to attention, the most recent text reveals itself to be Meian’s link, sent just under twenty minutes ago.

_ A dream. _ The revelation dawns on him - casting truth upon a dawn that never was. A dream, but still not long enough to render his worst fears false.

There are knocks, again. This time slower, more hesitant.

Atsumu scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes to his front door, needing to answer before the visitor departs. There is no spying through the peephole, just a resolute turning of a knob, and a pull so rushed it nearly unhinges wood from frame.

He half expects it to be Shouyou or Koutarou, coming in person to check up on him rather than sending texts. Instead, the very subject of their potential concern stands there, still dressed in the same clothing as those ominous photos, but with no mask cloaking his unreadable expression. In the air between them, a hand forms a slight fist, raised in preparation to knock once more.

_ Wait, is  _ this _ the dream? Or was it what I saw before?  _ Doubt seeps in for a brief moment, but the ache in Atsumu’s chest has deepened to an intolerable level at the unexpected visitor, and he knows the pain should’ve awakened him outright.

“Kiyo...Kiyoomi.” He stammers out the name reserved for their private moments, its enunciation almost foreign to his lips after a week’s unuse. “What are ya…”

“You taught me wrong.” From a barely opened mouth, the straightforward critique escapes.

“Wrong? What do ya mean?” Bewilderment overwhelms, leaving the narrowest path for Atsumu’s attempted logic. “Was...the hand holding uncomfortable? Did yer kiss not end well?”

A similar confusion creeps onto a previously neutral face. “What are you talking about?”

Leaving his entrance ajar, Atsumu walks back to his room to retrieve his phone, footsteps heavy with strife. By the time he returns, Kiyoomi has officially invaded his space, leaning his lanky frame against a now closed door.

When he hands over the device, already opened to the offending contents, Atsumu avoids landing his own eyes upon them.

The spiker cradles the cold metal, and only a second passes before both eyes take on distress, his expression contorting to a degree of upset. But before Atsumu can offer feeble sorts of relief - he himself possesses little of it - Kiyoomi initiates a series of deep breaths. It’s not hyperventilation, but serene inhales and exhales, akin to the exercises from the very first time they had practiced basic touch. Slowly but surely, the scrunches across his features begin to fade, returning his face to an almost uncharacteristic calm.

“Miya. Tell me...again.” Kiyoomi’s next words are devoid of struggle, as if well-rehearsed in their delivery. “Who have you been thinking of at night? Why have you stopped being with anyone else? What is it...that you want?”

The revived questions, so blunt in their irrelevance to what he had just been shown, catch Atsumu by complete surprise. He had fielded each over the course of fragmented nights, the responses truncated by his personal misgivings. Yet here, so soon after enduring the consequence of self-doubt, when his journey of grief had barely begun, he is forced to confront the inadequacies of old intentions - the wrongfulness behind dishonesty.

“Answer me. Please.” The request sounds. For the first time since Kiyoomi’s arrival, there is a modicum of emotion within his eyes, like reassurance that this is not a malicious reveal of any sin, but an opportunity for penance.

“And what if I tell ya the truth?” Atsumu questions cautiously, clutching the remnant dust of his broken mirror. “What then?”

After a brief pause, Kiyoomi walks over to the kitchen counter, and places the phone upon it before turning back towards him. It’s distance, both literal and metaphorical, between either of them and what exists upon the screen. An erasure of distractions, of ambiguities, of fallacies.

“Then...I’ll tell you my answers, to the same questions.”

They’re not holding hands tenderly below a streetlight, or even holding hands at all, but the proposal generates an invisible force, chasing away storms and mending glass. Atsumu doesn’t know what the land he reigns over will resemble beyond the squalls, or how perfect the images upon his mirror will be after its restoration. But he’s certain that the nightmare from moments ago is  _ not _ what he wishes tomorrow to look like, and he’s certain that Kiyoomi is here, offering absolution that they never granted each other before. For a moment, the future becomes as clear as the sunniest day, and reality proves far more heartening than illusions.

_ "You, _ Kiyoomi.” He speaks the illusion he wants into reality, and despair into hope. “My answer to all three questions is you.”

There is a twitch at the corner of Kiyoomi’s lip, faint enough to be mistaken as just a trick of the light. His head soon lowers, as if bowing in apology, but the bend is restricted to his long neck, and nowhere nearly as deep as the one in Atsumu’s nightmare.

“Why did you hide that from me?”

Atsumu echoes the spiker’s movement, focusing on his socked feet rather than a bare knee. “None of this was...part of the deal. The lesson plan. We weren’t--”

“And yet you taught me wrong anyway, like I said.” Kiyoomi releases a deep sigh, a tinge of amusement bubbling beneath. “You told me what  _ you _ thought real love was, but you never asked...what  _ I _ thought it meant.”

When Atsumu looks up again, it’s directly into irises as dark as the hidden corners of his room. But rather than storms or illegible emotions, they radiate warmth through their obscurity - an adoration, painfully identical to what he had seen from himself in the mirror nights ago.

“What...do ya think it is?” He asks, though he thinks he is already witnessing the answer.

“I thought a lot, over the last week…” Kiyoomi pushes his body weight away from the counter. “And I think...love is the fact that you answered my name for those questions.”

His approach is as lethargic as molasses, and strangely, just as sweet.

“It’s...how you always asked me if I was ready, or alright.”

Ironically, at this very moment, Atsumu feels neither ready, nor alright.

“The fact that you never stopped me from confessing to someone else.”

Selflessness. Both his best and worst trait.

“The way...you’re looking at me right now.”

He has no idea what Kiyoomi observes from his vantage point, but Atsumu suspects it mimics the affection currently threatening to burst from his heart.

“That’s what I deduced about love, by myself.” Eyes gaze down at him, fervent beams gliding over all the terrains of his face. “Am I...right?”

At last, Kiyoomi is within his reach again - and not in the form of pixelated heartache, or shattered glass.

“Yah. Yer exactly right.” Atsumu reaches, and takes back those hands. Unlike within the photos, he does not allow them to simply hang in between. He grasps, and lifts, and presses an elongated kiss against the bumps of a pale knuckle - all without breaking their mutual stare.

_ His _ hands.  _ His  _ Kiyoomi.  _ His. _ Maybe.

“Then...is there still more, after all? That you can teach me?”

“Yah.” He professes at last, layering a veneer of truth right above joined fingers. “I can teach ya...the ways I love ya, Kiyoomi. If ya’ll let me.”

“You love me...” The murmur, laced with a measure of disbelief, reiterates that most sincere part.

“I love ya.” Atsumu repeats, and makes no plans to stop. “Yer not just someone I wanna instruct, much less another conquest.”

That last statement is a long overdue denial of Kiyoomi’s most apparent worry, and Kiyoomi responds by alleviating his.

“What you saw on your phone...is not what it looks like.”

Atsumu allows their joint grip to be tugged away from him, and almost shudders when an identical kiss lands on his knuckle.

“I told Wakatoshi-kun...that I liked him for many years.” The exchange of honesty continues past the doting act. “Liked. Past tense.”

“Past tense…” He repeats the two simple syllables - simple, yet defining complexities that may no longer have the means to haunt him. 

“He held my hands to thank me, and congratulate me, for having the courage to admit it.” With deliberate calm, Kiyoomi narrates correction into misinterpretations. “He said he would’ve accepted...had it not been past tense.”

“Past tense…” Atsumu whispers again.

Before reality fully sets in, the touch that had blessed his hand converges with his mouth, landing two soft dance steps before improvising the rest of its choreography. Against his forehead, the familiar tickles of a jet black fringe, appearing and disappearing through its hypnotic wavers. And in the tender, ongoing folds of their lips, therein exists the confidence that Kiyoomi had always desired to learn. Confidence, not only during moments of physical intimacy, but also while delivering confessions to bygones - and perhaps, other confessions beyond those.

“Past tense, yes.” This confident Kiyoomi smiles when the kiss finally breaks. “Because you’re my answer, too. For those questions of mine.”

And ah.  _ Yes. _ That solace of Kiyoomi’s happiness. It’s no longer a mere bandaid for his wounds, but a joy Atsumu actually belongs in, with  _ Atsumu _ as a reason for its existence.

“I tried so hard to not think about you, or that idea of  _ us... _ but the longer things went on, the more that became impossible.” The smile disappears briefly behind a slanted pout. “And this past week, without you…I learned on my own, what love meant for me.”

Atsumu’s chest clenches, in thorough anticipation of whatever comes next.

“It’s not who I waited for. It’s who I  _ missed." _

For the first time, the roles of teacher and student reverse, and Atsumu marvels at the wondrous result of self-discovery - the realization that he had never unearthed. But then again, emotion and truth come in far too many shapes, and however arduous their respective paths to awakening had been, what matters is the awakening itself.

“I love you, too, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi declares, and revives all that Atsumu had feared lost. “You’re present tense.”

“Ya love me...” Heart overwhelmed, he weighs the fateful words on his tongue, balancing the striking mutuality of their feelings with that first utterance of his given name.

_ His  _ Kiyoomi.  _ His. _ Kiyoomi’s _ Atsumu. _ Kiyoomi’s.

“I do. I do love you.” His lover commits once more, and leans forward until their thighs touch through fabric. “But teach me...teach me more ways to show you that.”

“It’s...so much more than this.” Still reeling, Atsumu allows a myriad of different thrills to course through him. “But we can pick up where we left off. If that’s whatcha want, Kiyoomi.”

The answer comes in the form of another kiss, and this one does not cease - not when they shuffle backwards into his bedroom, not when all their layers shed to make way for desperate touches, not when their bare bodies succumb to unknown forces that meld them into a single entity.

The mirror is still where they had left it nights ago, its unmarred surface collecting all the rises and falls of their latest embrace. But the reflections captivate no audience tonight, as the sole two pairs of eyes within its vicinity now only express devotion to one another.

Atsumu is drunk on the alcohol of desire, a concoction already far more potent than all those shared drinks in strange bars and foreign cities. But with a dose of pure emotion blended in, and Kiyoomi’s skin tasting more delectable than pinches of salt crystals along a rim, he bids goodbye to his own sordid past. He is drunk, but his choices are conscious and cloudless, his actions guided by answers rather than questions.

“I want ya...” He voices one such answer somewhere in between.

Along his sweat-drenched hairline, he feels the gentle slide of nailbeds, the sensation somehow overpowering all their other points of contact. 

“Teach me, Atsumu.”

His muscled arm extends on reflex, blindly reaching for the nightstand drawer before obtaining the half-used tube within. When Atsumu pushes back up to a kneeling position, the erection roused by their indulgences so far already begs for relief, but he ignores it, just as he forces himself to ignore Kiyoomi’s listless attempts at towing him back down.

Accepting defeat, Kiyoomi resorts to watching him squeeze lubricant into his right palm. Before Atsumu can use both hands to lather, however, a force drags at his left forearm. It succeeds at ushering his unsullied digits next to a kiss-stung mouth, and soon more pecks land one-by-one, running from knuckle to fingertips, as if blessing what he is about to do next.

Atsumu’s heart lurches at the sentimental scene, that display of trust reserved for the most devout of lovers. With a lone hand, he smooths the lube as much as possible throughout, and once nearly prepared, he glides backward to hover above Kiyoomi’s frame, directing a reassuring gaze into expectant eyes.

“As ya asked before - I’ll show, not tell.” He slips his hand between slightly elevated thighs, heatseeking fingers snaking downward until they arrive at their destination. “But please, say somethin’ if it becomes too much to handle.”

Kiyoomi hisses, but follows with a few quick nods. “You can...use the sanitizer in my jacket pocket after, if you need it.”

He holds back a chuckle, but still keeps the offer in mind as he removes his forearm from the other’s grasp, instead sliding it under an arched neck for support. A torso’s distance away, he slowly inserts an index finger into sacred warmth, nudging at the resistant rings of muscle.  _ Relax, _ he mouths silently, but when dark brows pinch longer than he predicts, Atsumu leans in to place tender kisses upon that pair of moles, nurturing the wrinkled skin around them.

“Mm…” A sigh of contentment sounds from below, and even further beneath, he is finally granted entrance. With the initial probes, the tight channel takes on the persona of its owner - welcoming for one moment, then hesitant again the next. But Atsumu patiently explores, pairing each nudge with more forehead caresses and whispered encouragement. In due time, he feels most of the strain loosen, soft walls adjusting to his presence.

He curls in a second finger then, all the while monitoring the subtle shifts of Kiyoomi’s face. The eventual scissoring motion he tests draws a series of shaky whimpers, but there is no request to stop. Kiyoomi only pulls in both legs closer, seemingly for his own comfort, but also easing Atsumu deeper in the process.

A third, and Kiyoomi bends an arm inward in order to hide half his flushed face. Even though such an expression had been visible many times previous, this one somehow exposes itself as the last stage before a whole other echelon of reactions. It is as if the spiker knows something much more debauched is imminent, and is attempting to wrestle back a semblance of control.

But ultimately, the setter is always in control - the setter and his setter hands both.

So when the tip of Atsumu’s middle finger delves, and brushes against that most uncharted of protrusions buried within, Kiyoomi’s entire body tenses, a choked moan muffling itself into his wrist.

_ "Mmm---!" _

_ Found ya. _ Atsumu can’t help but grin, and quickly illustrates a mental map to guide his revisits. Though partially concealed, etched across enigmatic features is indeed that next tier, all misty eyes and erratic blinks and stunned looks. Instead of provoking further, he drags his wrist lethargically, removing girth from its shelter while pressing a final kiss to a now smoothened forehead. Contrary to earlier, Kiyoomi’s expression contorts again into displeasure as soon as their bodies separate, but Atsumu pretends to not notice. As suggested, he departs the bed temporarily to search for that bottle tucked within a team jacket. It’s not part of his personal routine, but he knows by now all the ways his partner incompletely voices his needs, so if fully cleansed hands provide more comfort, then it is the least he can oblige.

The cap for the sanitizer only just snaps open when the whine already sounds from behind him.

“Atsumu...need you...”

He applies the unscented liquid generously, and turns to flash a sly smile. “Need me to what? Come back?”

Kiyoomi’s lips quirk downward, its shape dictating words he won’t say. The pout eases, however, once Atsumu makes his way to the nightstand, and finally procures a foiled square from a box he had never opened.

The slide of the condom is intentionally slow - as is the addition of another layer of lube - making for a new, nonverbal lesson, but also a final temptation of sorts. He doesn’t detect Kiyoomi’s fixed stare firsthand, but the meager shifts of long legs at the foot of the bed, crossing and uncrossing in apparent agitation, are evidence enough.

He walks around and climbs over those pale stems, arms bracketing a body emanating his same eagerness, propelling him forward.

“I’m not leavin’ this time.” He promises once their foreheads touch. “Or ever again.”

A gentle pull upon both his shoulders runs in sync with a relieved sigh, and they melt together once more, living out the terms of this latest vow. But no matter how feverish their skin, it still does not compare to the heat further downward - seducing, awaiting.

Atsumu fists around the base of his cock, directing its aim until rubber dips slightly into a prepared hollow.

“Kiyoomi…can I?”

The affirmative is spoken through legs wrapping around his waist, the lift aiding his angle. And so he interlocks their hands just above the mass of dark ringlets, taming those unpredictable wrists from going as wild as the hair below.

Like his fingers had experienced, that first push is all comfort and warmth, welcoming him home after days of wandering in lost directions. The tightness envelopes his length little by little, immersing it in indescribable sensations that only the two of them comprehend.

“Ah…Tsumu...”

“Kiyoomi…” He kisses the name into a quivering mouth.

With each delicate advance, strong arms unleash an equally minute struggle. But there are no words of rejection, so Atsumu continues the patient journey, relishing the faultless way they fit together. Nerves rooted within both their flesh vibrate and urge him on, until he loses track of where he ends and Kiyoomi begins.

When the curls carpeting both their groins begin to blend, Atsumu starts a fleeting retreat. It’s a perplexing reverse, both smooth and plagued by friction at once, but they are rewarded during the next drive forward, when one cock gains deeper ground, while the other becomes firmly nestled between two undulating torsos.

They groan in a spontaneous duet, scandalized yet satisfied.

The cycle repeats, without need for conscious commands. They push, and pull - exiling all their denials and resistances in the process. As he thrusts, Atsumu runs a dreamy gaze along writhing perfection, the sight itself no longer confined to dreams. So often had his imagination blossomed from this very bed - even once while Kiyoomi had played audience - but those are fantasies they can both bid farewell to. Here and now, locked in reality, are the throaty moans that acknowledge their new selves, and scattered amongst them, the cries of only two names - no one else’s.

“Are ya alright?” He still asks in one of those rare moments of clarity, because he always does.

“Yes…” The response arrives, a few seconds delayed.

“How...how does it feel?”

It’s a genuine question that Atsumu seeks to understand, as he himself fails to find explanation. Kiyoomi watches him through curtains of fluttering lashes, gathering sporadic focus in his attempt to answer.

Right then, Atsumu discovers it again - the nub that promises retribution, though not before unraveling them both. His next plunge reaches with the faintest brush, but it also draws the loudest gasp.

In the end, the start of Kiyoomi’s undoing is also his renaissance.

“It feels like...like you love me…”

The simplest revelation - like “past tense” and “present tense” - a discovery untainted by previous experience.

“Yah…” Recalling innocence, Atsumu moves to the rhythm of just as simple words, gingerly, deeply. “I love ya…I’m here...with ya...”

“With me…”

The repeated phrase precedes heels digging into the base of his spine, as if needing to keep Atsumu there -  _ with him _ \- for an indefinite time. Such a thought disrupts his pace, and he steals his first and only glance to the side. Within the mirror, they are vague outlines in motion - the swaying, tightened muscles along Kiyoomi’s bent legs, and the spellbinding rocks of Atsumu’s hips, pumping ecstasy into both their sensitive bodies. 

The image is  _ their _ renaissance, made of permanent paint strokes saturated with hues of the flesh, bringing them ever closer to a breathtaking finish. As the burn of release sneaks into his self-control, compromising those last lines of defense, Atsumu quickly snakes fingers between their sealed skin, capturing an already leaking shaft, also in its end stages of restraint.

“Atsumu... _ Atsumu…! Ah---oh---fuck…" _

The drastic arch of a spine elevates them both into the air, and Kiyoomi’s expression finally enters that highest echelon - a staggering joy, immersed in the acts of their love. It’s that vision, and not the spasms around their connection, that also caves in the foundations holding Atsumu aloft. So he tumbles, not into the oblivion he had feared, but the same rapture Kiyoomi floats in - where teachings become gospel, and where temptations bear fruit.

“Omi... _ Kiyoomi..." _

The strength throughout his body evaporates for a moment, leaving Atsumu boneless and crumpling in the aftermath. But their hearts pulse with a single, matching rhythm, tuning all his systems until they regain stability. Gradually, the shortened breaths against his ear revive his lungs, and the stalwart muscles trembling below him rejuvenate his own fortitude. This is how they exist now - _ they, them, theirs _ \- no longer subject to charades or sins. All their pained memories of each other, retuned - converted into an unusual but sublime prologue to a still-unwritten tale.

Atsumu holds that thought close, and lifts himself to detach from anywhere they remain joined. Kiyoomi protests weakly as he discards the condom, but the grumbles turn into whimpers when Atsumu descends again, using his tongue to cleanse the smears of come - first along a softening shaft, then throughout the planes of hard abdomen before moving onward.

He proceeds in a retelling of their beginnings, a reversal of most of their sessions: worshipping the cluster of spots along a hipbone, devouring the pertness of a nipple, nibbling at the enticing column of a neck. He seals their lips, and shares the taste on his tongue; He kisses the moles adorning a forehead, then the contour of a cheekbone; He links their hands, then unlinks them in favor of featherlight touches that run along an arm. Each action, a sentence in that prologue - no longer empty means of instruction, but embodiments of the love story he had always intended to write.

Kiyoomi merely smiles beneath closed eyes, as if savoring his private reminisces. And thus, Atsumu returns them together, all the way back to the foreword, where he ardently offers co-authorship.

Lesson 0. Reset. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yah I’m a sap deep down stfu
> 
> next week last week!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/asakuatsu) (18+ only)
> 
> ty for comments and feedback <3


	10. reform iniquities and flourish anew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH THIS FIC TO THE END. THANK YOU!!
> 
> [my twitter](http://twitter.com/asakuatsu) (18+ only) - if you enjoyed the read [there is also now a fic graphic here](https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1315075531461865473)

He awakens to their new tale, scripted with inks of hair beneath his chin, and dialogue in the language of light breezes crossing his neck, cooling added body heat that warms his room another half degree. Limbs that always follow his tosses in-game with their powerful arcs now lay serene, conforming to the curves and crevices left by two otherwise merged bodies. Around them, the air still thrives with the musky scent of an aftermath, fragrant in its notes of comfort and felicity.

No nightmare had haunted his previous hours, but even the best dream would've paled against this reality - a dimension reconstructed, and calibrated to their infatuations alone.

He presses a kiss into Kiyoomi's crown, tightening their embrace even more in the process. The not-so-subtle friction of their skin inspires a soft groan, and below black tresses, eyelids begin to pinch in a battle with fatigue.

"Mornin'." Atsumu whispers, bedroom voice in full effect. “Are ya sore or anythin’?”

"Morning..." The struggled response mumbles into his neck. "I feel okay, I think. What time is it...?"

His view catches digitized numbers blinking red, and a hunt within his mind soon captures the correct schedule. "7:34. Today we have practice at 9..."

Kiyoomi's neck stretches lazily, a lethargy characteristic of his post-match persona - now being conveyed after a wholly different type of exertion. They spend the next few minutes staring sleepily at each other, two pairs of half-lidded eyes adjusting to disbelief that they've actually awakened in the same bed. When matching grins eventually appear on their faces, Atsumu wonders how silly they must look to any non-existent observers. But then again, they're silly and in love, with neither concept requiring further more teachings - so embarrassment can take a humble second seat.

"How long was our shower...that time?" The smile facing him breaks to make way for the abrupt question.

"Hm?" 

"In the locker room..." Arching brows and a pout seem to question  _ Did you already forget? _

Atsumu flushes as he’s inundated with thoughts of wet skin and wet strokes. "Oh uh...maybe 25 minutes?"

A faint sparkle ignites in the spiker’s eyes, and one of his arms slithers deep below the covers, running a flirtatious touch down Atsumu’s middle that ends below his belly button. "Think we can do the same thing in 20?"

Shuddering at the contact, Atsumu raises an eyebrow in challenge. "If ya order me to talk to ya the same way again, I bet I could finish us even faster."

The provocation works marvelously, resulting in Kiyoomi burying his face into the sheets with a frustrated groan.

"Yes...I order you to that..." His surrender comes swift, but not without conditions. "Brush your teeth first, though. I can smell it from here."

Atsumu snorts, and nuzzles his nose bridge into an unexposed temple.

“Ya might have to get used to it,  _ Ki-yo-omi." _

With that, he leaves alluring body heat behind, and hops a few long steps from wood to tile. There is a pleasant soreness throughout his muscles, reminders of a game he no longer loathes and a night seared into his head - memories, always to be needed.

Squeeze, brush, swig, gurgle - four acts of obedience later, he leaves a new toothbrush for his guest and moves to turn on the spray. The water spurts, along with a heartening thought that the green handle and white bristles he had just unpacked might become a permanent fixture.

Droplets trail down his muscles right as Kiyoomi arrives within the doorframe, leaning against its sidebar in a way identical to a week ago - only this time, without a single thread on him as coverage. His gaze, shadowed but no longer tired, runs along Atsumu’s frame in the same manner as the hot liquid, but dragged down by forces of attraction rather than gravity.

"Yer not gonna join me, Omi-kun?" He echoes that exact same question, despite knowing that today’s answer won’t disappoint.

As Kiyoomi enters and grabs for the toothbrush, Atsumu spies his cock already half-hard, having appreciated the free performance. And even while his physical movements soon center around bubbling lips, his focus drifts again and again towards the steaming alcove.

“Yer so patient.” Atsumu reaches down to give his length a thoughtful stroke. “Unlike me.”

The taller man releases whatever still occupies his mouth, the contents splashing generously into the sink. “I’m actually not.” At last, his focus trains on Atsumu and Atsumu only. “You should know that by now.”

“Yah.” He strokes again, this time right in Kiyoomi’s direction. “No complaints.”

His lover also expresses no complaint as he advances, reacquainting bare skin and earnest sighs in a matter of seconds. Among mingling breaths, Atsumu tastes not mint and chamomile but the crisp flavor of his own toothpaste - strangely foreign, yet utterly intimate all at once. As soon as gentle bites drift away from his bottom lip, he chants words solicited, all the while soliciting even more with his fist, expertly curved around quivering velvets.

_ Ya learned so well, Kiyoomi...Will never get tired of yer taste...Wantcha like this every mornin’... _

_ Feels too good...Touch me faster...Make me come, Atsumu... _

The most genuine of wantonness flows from their unguarded tongues, syllables bouncing off pink tips alongside cascading water. It’s repetition, an improvised variation of a past rendezvous - for such moments are no longer restricted to a single lesson or a single act. From this day forward, they are to be repeated at will, one climax after the next.

Their self-control disintegrates with three minutes to spare, and before Atsumu’s come dilutes in the deluge, Kiyoomi drops to one knee, lapping hungrily at every drop that has yet to wash away.

“Yer gonna make me come twice, doing that.” He halfheartedly tries to tear eyes away from the feasting, and fails.

“Go ahead, then.” Kiyoomi wipes at the corner of his mouth with a thumb. “You never finished that one time, so I never got to taste. Now you owe me.”

Atsumu ponders the appealing prospect of being a nightly buffet, and manages a delirious nod.

They towel off together after some minutes of recovery, exchanging light pecks whenever their faces hover close. It’s a quiet affair for the most part, but as Atsumu tows in a thin waist for a final, affectionate back hug, the spiker turns to divulge a second wish directly into his ear.

"At some point, can you teach me...what you did to me last night?" He asks with more curiosity than bashfulness. "I mean, I liked everything...a  _ lot..._but maybe, I also want to try that, once in a while." 

A premonition of Kiyoomi breathing huskily over him inspires a whole different sensation throughout Atsumu’s nerves. "Of course, Omi." He moves himself in front, giving a playful slap to his own muscular ass. "Whatever ya still wanna learn."

Behind him, Kiyoomi’s scoff sounds incredulous, but he still reaches out to give the resilient flesh a teasing squeeze.

-*-

Their locker room routines are truncated this morning, freeing time for an unofficial meeting with both overseers of the team right outside of the training grounds. The explanation, to Atsumu's relief, is straightforward enough to earn quick nods of approval from both Coach and captain. And before long, his head swims with drafts of scrambled statements, now deemed necessary to settle many more minds. Meian reenters the gymnasium first, no doubt gathering the rest of the team for their makeshift press conference. But even as the nerve-racking moment draws closer, Atsumu is thankful to be on this side of the wall, rather than trapped within the concrete cage and all its unknowns.

Just before they also pass through the double doors, Kiyoomi grabs his hand, as if wanting to ensure a degree of clarity right as they enter. It’s initiative akin to their recent confessions, and yet another example of confidence learned. So Atsumu follows this newly minted figure of tenacity, carrying out their self-fulfilling prophecy: a bout of courage, a series of resolute steps, a wordless confirmation of whatever suspicions still exist. Similar to his dream, there is a buzz of commotion, but this time, any pressure from illegible words diffuses as it is shared between two moving - and linked - figures. He hopes his hand isn't too clammy, but Kiyoomi reveals no intention to release it throughout their walk. And thus, when they finally end up on open display, standing side-by-side, his perspiration acts more like adhesive, gluing the dunes of their palms into a seamless fusion.

Fused in both flesh and purpose, they bow in tandem, backs curving far past 90 degrees.

"We're very sorry for any confusion." Atsumu recites what had been practiced in the last few minutes. "And inconvenience."

Thankfully, that last word proves harmless when he utters it himself.

"Those pictures from last night were completely out of context." Kiyoomi continues as they return to upright postures. "Wakatoshi-kun and I are only friends, as we always have been."

Right then, Atsumu feels the hold upon his hand tighten even more, and he reciprocates while the other continues.

"It's as some of you already suspected before. The two of us...Atsumu-kun and I are together."

_ Together.  _ The simplest word defining endless possibilities that seemed so absurd only days before. Across the small crowd they confront, smiles begin to emerge throughout all the familiar faces, and Atsumu inhales the scene like it’s additional confidence, rebelling against absurdity and nightmares.

"Omi--Kiyoomi-kun and I...please support us."

“Woooo!” He barely finishes when cheers resound throughout the gym.

"I  _ knew _ what I accidentally saw wasn't platonic." From the rear, Shion crosses his arms with pride. This time, Atsumu makes a mental note to ask exactly what he had witnessed.

“Oh thank god, I didn’t fuck up after all.” Near the center, Koutarou practically falls backwards in apparent relief.

"AHH?!" In the front row, Shouyou exclaims with sudden realization, eyes practically tearful in their mourning. "But Omi-san, you made me delete that great picture..."

"I...I saved it, actually." Kiyoomi stammers even before Atsumu makes any admission of his own.

"Ohhhhhh..." Their teammates sing at the unexpected response, eyes bright and expressions awed.

Meian clears his throat. "Alright. Still -  _ no comment from anyone to the media, _ please." He insists before turning in their direction. "We'll have you two clarify this yourselves, if you want to."

Atsumu nods. "Yah, we should."

As with most other professional athletes caught in scandal, their explanation comes in the form of two handwritten letters scanned and published, scribed with apologetic yet hopeful tones. To everyone’s surprise, Ushijima also makes rare public remarks through the Adlers’ website barely an hour later, giving his consensus - with special emphasis on his imminent departure to Poland - as well as staunch support for the two of them.

“Well. It’s official now.” Atsumu breathes, watching the number of online reactions skyrocket in a matter of minutes.

Kiyoomi looks more apprehensive than usual, but his ongoing clutch of Atsumu’s hand brims with determination.

-*-

The flurry of online commentary swamps their corner of the internet for the indefinite future, but priorities manifest themselves along the way. Thus, they cram together on Atsumu's couch that night, fulfilling a session requested via multitude of texts over the course of a turbulent day. Through the narrow screen, Motoya's grin contrasts drastically with Rintarou's usual, confounded look. And in a second camera window below the Raijin pair’s, Osamu eats some homecooked oden dutifully, playing the part of docile listener and not revealing much emotion.

_ "I knew it!" _ As soon as all parties become present, the libero exclaims - almost too proudly - to kick things off.

"Ya did??" Atsumu panics for a moment as he flashes back to conversations held over ramen. "Did ya provoke me on purpose, then? Back at the restaurant?"

"Me? Nah." Motoya shakes his head, innocence prevalent and authentic. "I just told you the truth of what I knew. I always believe things will work out the way the universe intends - courtesy of Kiyoomi-kun's influence."

"What the hell did I miss at that dinner...?" Rintarou mutters aloud, still as bewildered as ever.

"Yah...what did  _ I _ miss..." Kiyoomi echoes, his attention darting back and forth between the phone and Atsumu's sheepish smile.

_ "You _ were the one who didn't want to go, Kiyoomi-kun!" His cousin stresses. "I figured back then it was either that you disliked Atsumu-kun or the  _ total _ opposite. Now we know, heheh."

Caught red-handed, Kiyoomi subconsciously snuggles even closer, until their cheeks are nearly in contact. Atsumu pretends the gesture does not affect him in the slightest, but he soon becomes alarmed at the fondness slowly replacing Osamu’s previous stoicism, a metamorphosis fully detectable in its streamed format. It's a look he had never seen before from his twin, and he’s unsure whether he likes it or not.

"Good luck, Sakusa-san." After his next swallow, Osamu gifts them a sincere, if not somewhat sly, chuckle. "Message me any time ya wanna complain about him together."

Right then, Atsumu fumes, all positive feelings dissipated.

"That's it, we're going to sleep.  _ Good night." _ His finger makes a threatening move to disconnect from the call.

_ "'We'..." _ Rintarou still frowns, as if nursing a headache at the mere thought.

"Yes.  _ We." _

Motoya’s uproarious laugh at his annoyance is cut off by the press of a button.

Minutes later, the two of them indulge in an innocent cuddle underneath his duvet, the world shutout as they exchange random whispers on everything from family member grumbles to volleyball. Kiyoomi listens with amusement as he runs through all the pros and cons of having a twin, while he becomes impressed by the plethora of astronomy knowledge Kiyoomi absorbed over his college years. As soon as the topic lands back on their shared passion, however, their competitive natures resurface.

"Admit it, I'm the best setter ya ever played with."

"Hmph...let's see how you perform if we ever have another fight."

"So you admit it at least?"

Kiyoomi doesn’t, but he allows tender kisses to guide them into joint slumber.

-*-

The headlines carry on for the next few days, mostly supportive with the occasional exception. Some rumors speculate too far in their attempts to damage and attract discourse, but Atsumu brushes them aside with a simple shut off of his phone. After all, he is present tense to the only person who matters, and tabloids tend to be terrible at grammar.

During their next match, there are countless new posters in the audience, blessing their union via simple, encouraging phrases. Throughout the game, Atsumu finds his eyes straying during breaks, admiring how nicely the kanji of their names look when written juxtaposed.

He tells Kiyoomi exactly this in the middle of the night - in the middle of guiding his partner’s languid ride up and down his arousal, while his teeth scrape along a hardening nipple. It’s not a new lesson entirely, just extra tutoring - by means of an untested position.

He doubts that Kiyoomi’s avid hands are scratching anything legible onto his back muscles, but Atsumu knows his own fingers are creating meaningful signature: stroke-by-stroke, two characters that signify his identity, now invisibly embossed into paler skin.

“I saw the posters...too,” The hoarse voice responds from slightly above. “Some fans have...nice calligraphy skills…”

“Y’know,” He teases the wild thought that has slowly begun to captivate. “If ya ever take my last name, yer name’ll become much shorter...much easier for them to write.”

Kiyoomi glares daggers at him through frustrated breaths, in evident disbelief that such a subject has arisen at this very moment. Nevertheless, a surrender of sorts eventually slots between his fervent sighs.

“Suggest that to me again...in one or two years… _ah..._ "

“I will...” Atsumu knows both their heads are flooded enough by lust to inspire a whole bunch of premature, perhaps nonsensical claims, but he still gladly begins a private countdown. Here and now, Kiyoomi is sliding against his cock at the perfect pace as each passing second, and he thinks two more years of this - and then who knows how many beyond that - would be quite welcomed.

-*-

"Let's go somewhere today." He mumbles when weekend sunlight glazes over them the next morning.

They’re still subject to the winter chill, though a renewed warmth, far beyond what stems from interlocked fingers, accompanies their journey across the familiar plaza. Once again, the destination is the towering, circular structure that looms ahead, but all sounds around them are hushed compared to their shared laughter, and lithe footsteps almost float in the midst of their carefree existence.

They squeeze into the ferris wheel pod, occupying a single side instead of opposite each other, gloved hands still held above wedged thighs. With innate ease, Kiyoomi leans his head onto Atsumu’s shoulder - a much more conscious reenactment of a bus ride once upon a time, and a likely preview of many future ones.

As their elevation increases, Atsumu’s expanded view soon points his attention towards a building down below - seemingly innocuous, but the unwitting source of much complexity. Whether it had been a source of catalyst or woe, he doubts that they will revisit the maze any time soon. After all, there is always a mirror in his room, and through that one, the only way they will get lost is in each other.

"Atsumu.” By strange coincidence, there is a mutter of his name, beautifully recognizable and without even the potential for replacement.

“Hm?”

“Atsumu..."

"Yah? What is it?"

"Nothing." Kiyoomi shrugs. "Just wanted to say it. To be honest, my head's so congested with your damn name now that I have to let it out once in a while."

He laughs heartily, the contagious sound soon duplicated by a lower register, before the combination echoes throughout the miniscule space. Even after all their ordeals, these random displays of naivete still prove endearing, and Atsumu can only marvel at the privilege to bear witness. 

"Let me guess.” Between their cheerfulness, the younger man deems another lesson learned. “That's supposed to be part of love, too."

"Yah, Kiyoomi."

Atsumu lifts fingers beneath a pointed chin, tipping it upward until chapped lips meet.

"Kiyoomi..."

Repetition. Variance.

"Omi..."

The third kiss lingers the longest, completing more unfinished sentences within their story.

"It will hurt though, sometimes." He advises, in this reset period with no more deceits. "And there'll probably be other misunderstandin's."

They continue their literal rise towards the heavens, its pearly gates still opened to that paradise free of their past tribulations. Within its refuge, a hand takes hold of his poised fingers, shifting them until the leathered palm fits seamlessly along a supple cheek.

"We'll keep learning from each other." His Kiyoomi beams with faith that rivals the constancy of a luminous sun. “I’ve always been a good student.”

Atsumu beams just the same, a faultless reflection without glass - heart combusting like all his initial predictions, but still intact, undamaged, thriving as an eternal flame.

“Ya’ll always get perfect marks from me.”

-*-

[F I N]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~and they fucked happily ever after~~
> 
> fuck I’m such a sap wtf happened??? lol
> 
> anyway THANK YOU ALL AGAIN. 
> 
> I will also be back soon (again on anon) to flesh out [this skeletal concept](https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1311849538701930496) in a 2-chapter (planned for now anyway):
> 
> _SakuAtsu keep in touch via video chats after Kiyoomi enters college & Atsumu heads to MSBY_
> 
> _their convos begin as vball chatter, until one night 2 years in, when Atsumu walks into the webcam frame in only a towel_
> 
> _"Take it all off, Miya." Kiyoomi accidentally says out loud._
> 
> **ETA (November 8th 2020):** the fic based on the above - [Within Sight, Within Mind - can now be found here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443362)
> 
> **ETA (November 14th, 2020):** and here is my third offering (which actually stars UshiWaka): [Two's Company, Three's No Crowd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567103)
> 
>  **ETA (March 2nd, 2020):** my fourth work: [All Bets are Off](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790006)
> 
>  **ETA (March 3rd, 2020):** my fifth works: [Spiced Up Slice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29811360)
> 
> stay healthy & stay tuned skts fandom <3 please thank [LARA](https://twitter.com/blakjackal) for kicking off this whole thing & leave a comment if you enjoyed the whole read! [my 18+ only twitter is here](http://twitter.com/asakuatsu) ([Here again is the fic tweet if you wish to confess your participation in this madness](https://twitter.com/ASakuatsu/status/1315075531461865473)) for any extra thoughts and feedback, or if you just wanna keep in touch~


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